


Exodus

by minhyukie (thelogicoftaste)



Series: Setting Places [2]
Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child!Yugyeom, Dad!Jaebum, Dad!Jinyoung, Established Relationship, Family Au!, Kid!Fic, M/M, domestic AU, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/minhyukie
Summary: Sometimes, Jinyoung catches a glimpse of his face and he knows for certain exactly what he’s going to look like in ten years time, in twenty.It throws him completely off kilter. Makes him speechless. Makes his heart churn in a mixture of excitement and apprehension.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to [anteroom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907328/chapters/32005941)
> 
> exodus
> 
> noun; 
> 
> a mass departure of people

-

These days, Jinyoung wakes up early.

He spends the first few minutes with his eyes closed, breathing in - the sense of comfort, of home. The air is still, and the outside sounds of Seoul are muffled behind double-glazed windows and thick curtains.

It’s dark too, when he finally opens his eyes. His and Jaebum’s bedroom is awash with muted sunlight, filtering pale golden over the bedsheets.

Jaebum is passed out on his side of the bed; breathing deeply, snoring a little bit.

He’s facing away from Jinyoung, shoulders hunched beneath his sleep-soft cotton shirt, hands tucked under his pillow.

So Jinyoung slides out of bed carefully, pads down the hall and into the kitchen in his worn slippers.

It’s Saturday morning, and it feels like he has the whole apartment to himself. Well, and Nora.

She’s lazily grooming herself on her cat bed; long licks to the glossy sheen of her coat. She ignores Jinyoung, as she usually does, tucked beside the small, bristly Christmas tree set up in the corner.

In the kitchen, there’s an expensive coffee machine on the counter with far too many buttons. Jinyoung hasn’t read the manual and has no intention to. He’s never gone wrong with the “start” and “stop” functions.

The motions are familiar by now, even if they’re not as refined as Jaebum’s. He makes sure to secure the portafilter, adjusts the drip tray, and then the long rumbling vibrations begin.

It fills the entire room up, from the open kitchen all the way out into the living room. Nora stops her grooming, ears twitching with each drip of coffee into Jinyoung’s mug. She stands on all four paws and disappears down the hall with a prim swish of her tail.

It’s not long after this that Yugyeom wanders in.

His hair is a bird’s nest and he’s only in his underpants and long-sleeved pyjama shirt. But he heads towards the TV like he’s on a mission.

Jinyoung watches as he points the remote towards the screen and punches in the number code for _Tooniverse_. The morning run of _Doraemon_ is just about to start.

His chubby fingers are clumsy, so it takes him a few tries.

 _010_ , no, that’s not it. _011_ , no, not that either. Yugyeom blusters a frustrated sigh.

He tries again, pressing so firmly on each rubber button that it squeaks against the plastic - _1, 0, 0._ There it is.

He tunes in just as the opening strings from the theme song warbles from the screen.

Satisfied, Yugyeom climbs on to the couch, curling up in his favourite corner with his legs tucked under himself.

He’s getting taller now, Jinyoung thinks, older. He’s at the tail end of five years old, with round rosy cheeks and a rounded tummy too.

He eats as much as Jaebum does, with equal amounts of enthusiasm, but he never quite stays still enough for the weight to stay on him.

These days, Jinyoung’s weeks are characterised by his various activities. Some afternoons are spent dashing the kid to the dance class at the local children’s centre, other mornings spent trying to finalise work reports as Yugyeom’s off-key piano tunes drift out from Jaebum’s home studio.

But at the centre of it, is the fact that Yugyeom is getting older. It’s-. It’s strange.

Sometimes, Jinyoung catches a glimpse of his face and he knows for certain exactly what he’s going to look like in ten years time, in twenty.

It throws him completely off kilter. Makes him speechless. Makes his heart churn in a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

 _Doraemon’s_ theme winds down, the bright glare of the title sequence dulling down into the familiar white-blue reflections on the kid’s soft face.

Jinyoung grabs the carton of milk from the fridge, pouring some in his steaming mug of warm coffee. Then he grabs Yugyeom’s purple plastic cup from the cupboard to give him some too.

He won’t be able to pry him off the TV to eat his breakfast until after this show is finished, so he’ll save his sanity for another argument.

The microwave in their glossy kitchen is old. Older even than Yugyeom is. It’s an ugly off-white in colour, with turn dials instead of an electronic panel and a sad lump of gold tinsel as its only decoration for the season.

Jinyoung had bought it at a discount during one of Lotte Mart’s Chuseok holiday specials (and spent every use since wondering whether it’d be the last one).

Jaebum has been wheedling him for a new one, but Jinyoung despises throwing away things that work just fine. He’ll let them toil and trouble until they’re ready to give up, but not before then.

Besides, it works. Yugyeom’s milk is warmed through perfectly, not too hot. Jinyoung drops in a splash of vanilla extract, a teaspoon of sugar - and then he’s heading towards the living room.

Yugyeom is still watching the screen rapturously - the big blue curve of Doraemon chases after Nobito.

The characters jump like a current of electricity has flown right through them. Yugyeom laughs, scratches beneath his knee, then he settles.

He’s completely still, mesmerised. In fact, the only time he moves is as Jinyoung passes by him. He strains sideways to catch a glimpse of the screen behind his father, loathe to be separated from his beloved show even for a second.

Jinyoung places both cups on the low coffee table before he sits, digging out his phone from one of the deep side pockets of his pyjamas.

He sinks into the sofa with a sigh. Then he hands Yugyeom’s drink over to him and takes up his own.

It’s barely 8AM, but he finds that he can’t sleep longer than that anymore.

More often than not, though, he’ll stay in bed. Because bed means Jaebum - his warmth, his soft mouth, the sound of his sleep-worn voice.

Their schedules are still more or less opposite, although Jaebum is making more of an effort to be at home, and when they _are_ together, it’s the three of them.

Jinyoung loves seeing Yugyeom and Jaebum together, how they mesh and play. But there’s something still so exciting about being with Jaebum alone.

They don’t have much of it, so they make the most of it.

Every kiss feels like a secret; and Jaebum’s grip on his skin feels like a promise.

Purple flashes in his periphery.

“Finished,” Yugyeom trills, waving his cup in his father’s face. A quick glance at the TV reveals a commercial break. “Appa, I’m done.”

Jinyoung grabs the mug, because he will be _very_ not happy if he has to clean up milk splatters from the pristine fabric couch.

On the TV screen, a little girl dunks a Barbie doll into shallow soft-plastic pool.

“Where are your trousers?” Jinyoung asks the kid, depositing the mug on the coffee table. “It’s too cold for you to be wandering around like this.”

Jinyoung would address the idea that Yugyeom shouldn’t be going _anywhere_ without his trousers on, but that’s a battle he’s steadily losing.

“No,” Yugyeom replies. He frowns hard. Like it’s preposterous, like they haven’t woken up to a morning of frost outside their windows and dusted on the spiky, shorn shards of grass in their building’s front yard. “It’s too hot. Took my trousers off, and now it’s okay.”

He crawls over the squishy seats of the sofa to climb into Jinyoung’s lap, knobbly knees very close to inflicting some real danger.

Jinyoung transfers his coffee from one hand to the other as Yugyeom settles.

“Isn’t it too cold now?” he says, attempting to entice him, he rubs a palm on the kid’s legs. “Wouldn’t it be nice to cover up?”

“Appa,” Yugyeom says, sitting up a little to peer up at him. He looks very serious and a little bit surprised, like his father should really know better by now. “I don’t like trousers.”

Jinyoung pauses, takes a deep breath. Evenly as he can, he asks, “Why not?”

Yugyeom shrugs.

Jinyoung’s eye twitches. Shrugging is an annoying habit he’s picked up from school, Jinyoung doesn’t like it one bit.

“With your words,” he admonishes, “Gyeom-ah, please.”

“I don’t know,” Yugyeom says, wheedles it out like it’s the hardest question he’s ever been asked. He goes to shrug his shoulders again, but catches the look in Jinyoung’s eyes and freezes - shoulders stuck about his ears.

He lets it down slowly, like Jinyoung won’t notice. Instead Jinyoung pinches his small chin, says, “You’re going to have to put your trousers on if you want to go outside today, baby.”

Yugyeom looks flustered, wanting to avoid the topic altogether. His eyes flit nervously around, catching on the TV, where the adverts have been replaced by _Tooniverse’s_ programme offerings.

Yugyeom grips on to this like a lifesaver.

“Appa, it’s starting again,” he hurries to say, clumsily smushing his fingers against Jinyoung’s mouth to quieten any forthcoming complaints. He looks at him earnestly, “We have to do quiet time, now.”

Jinyoung rolls his eyes (but only once the kid has turned back to the TV). He downs his lukewarm coffee and places it on the low table in front of him before he reaches for the blanket on the armchair.

He tucks it around them, making sure Yugyeom’s legs are covered.

Now that he’s stuck here, with Yugyeom’s arm wrapped around his back and his head on his chest, there’s nothing much for Jinyoung to do other than glance at his mobile.

He’s not one for much social media, or, at all really. He has it, but only because of his friends. He doesn’t use it particularly often.

He hasn’t been active on Facebook for at least three years (the last thing he remembers “liking” is a short video of Jackson, drunk, trying to catapult off of a curb-side railing as Suzy, also drunk, yells at him in the background).

His Instagram is equally as sparse (a blurry selfie of him, exhausted, and Yugyeom, devastated, after one of the kid’s epic melt-downs; a short video of cerulean blue waves gently crashing on LA’s shore; a photo of Yugyeom reading a picture book too big to fit in his lap properly).

But he likes looking through it, does it a few times a week to catch up. Suji posts various pictures of herself at the newsroom with her co-workers. Hyunwoo’s feed is picture after picture after picture of various meals sourced from around Seoul. Momo’s are mostly gym-style photographs with long, rambling positivity captions.

Jinyoung’s favourite, though, is Jaebum’s. It’s not neat or particularly thematic. But there’s a certain element of continuity - the black film-style banners, the frizzed aesthetics - that he’s drawn to.

And, of course, it’s mostly about his favourite subject.

There’s a photo of Yugyeom’s small hands gripping at Jaebum’s wrists as the latter plays a tune on the piano - a Hugh Martin, Jinyoung remembers. It’s taken from above. Jinyoung had pointed the camera to capture the movement of their hands and just about caught the soft curve of the kid’s chin as Jaebum laughed.

Another post is Yugyeom’s pair of Moomin slippers (that he never wears) in their _hyeongwan_ , beside Jinyoung’s patent loafers and Jaebum’s classic three-stripe Adidas.

There are some of Jinyoung, more of Jaebum, but mostly innocuous, everyday things taken on film. Two umbrellas stuck in sand beside a pair of sandals; darkening clouds unfurling into the open air between grey skyscrapers; a ceiling lamp with a wide brim and a coiled metal cage around the bulb.

And, when Jinyoung refreshes, his own nose buried in Yugyeom’s soft hair as they curl around each other - a thick woven blanket draped over them. Jinyoung frowning as he concentrates on his phone, Yugyeom completely relaxed as he watches something off-screen: _Doraemon_.

Jinyoung flickers his gaze towards the hallway, where Jaebum stands, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed.

Heat flutters down his spine, melting in his belly.

“How long have you been standing there, you creep?”

Jaebum laughs, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

Yugyeom perks up at the sound, grinning toothily as Jaebum comes forward to cup his face and kiss him.

It doesn’t take long for Jaebum’s attention to turn to Jinyoung. And Jinyoung finds that, when it does, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His lips part almost automatically, mouth drying in anticipation.

Jaebum catalogues it all with a wry twist to his mouth, but his eyes are all gentle, warm as he leans forward to press a long kiss to his lips.

It’s quick and chaste, Jaebum’s fingers still trapped in Yugyeom’s death grip.

He sits beside them after he’s disentangled from the kid, sitting so close Jinyoung can feel his heat surrounding him.

Jaebum sighs long and deep and tries his best to become one with the couch. He still has sleep lines across his cheeks, the skin around his cuticles is dry, and he has a blister on the edge of his thumb from playing too much guitar lately.

His hand creeps under the blanket to rest on Jinyoung’s thigh. But it stays there only a second until it moves to grip Yugyeom’s ankle instead.

“It’s very early,” Jaebum says to Jinyoung, head leaning on the edge of couch so they can gaze at each other.

“Yeah,” Yugyeom answers quietly, eyes on the screen. “To watch _Doraemon._ ”

Jaebum glances down at him. “Yeah?” he repeats. “You enjoying it?”

“Uh huh,” says the kid, eyes still on the cartoon. He tries to make himself more comfortable on Jinyoung’s chest, tone mildly admonishing. “I’m listening now, Daddy.”

“Okay,” Jaebum laughs, sharing a look with Jinyoung. But he squeezes Yugyeom’s leg and assures him, “I understand.”

It’s not until after the show has finished, some ten minutes later, that Yugyeom rises from his stupor.

He stretches, nearly knocking Jinyoung out with one of his tiny fists, and then declares: “I need to potty now.”

Jinyoung helps lift him off of his lap. “Go on. Wash your hands, we’ll be eating breakfast.”

“You’re not wearing any trousers?” Jaebum asks, grabbing Yugyeom by the arm to engulf him in a hug. “Why aren’t you wearing any trousers, Gyeom-ah?”

Yugyeom giggles, cheek smushed against his father’s. “I don’t wanna. Don’t like trousers anymore.”

Jaebum looks to Jinyoung, but Jinyoung is already standing - palms brandished. “You can pick up that argument if you’d like. Just leave me out of it.”

Instead, he heads back to the kitchen, grabbing an apple from the bowl of fruit on the counter. It’s a little softer than he’d generally like. He washes it slowly, tap running a steady thin stream as he listens to Yugyeom and Jaebum behind him.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Jaebum asks the kid.

“Pancakes,” is the immediate reply. “And ice cream and coca-cola.”

Jaebum hums with great consideration (pretends he expected anything else from their son). “Now pick something more realistic.”

Yugyeom sighs, put upon. Still, he asks hopefully, “Pancakes?”

There’s barely a pause, Jaebum endeavours, “Will you put on pants if I do?”

Jinyoung sneaks a peak over his shoulder. Yugyeom has twisted out of Jaebum’s arms. They regard each other, the kid’s arms folded tight over his thin chest.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, then he dashes out of the room before Jaebum can say anything.

Jinyoung laughs, coming to rest his elbows on the island dividing the kitchen from the living room.

“Fantastic job,” he teases, eyes are warm as Jaebum twists around on the couch, arm draped over the back. The apple steadily drips water that runs up his wrist. He grabs a tea towel.

“Let me see you do it, then,” Jaebum laughs, standing to head into the kitchen.

Jinyoung watches him as he does, reaching out to him as soon as he comes close enough.

“That’s not an argument I’m willing to pick up at half past eight,” he murmurs. They’re standing toe to toe now, one of Jaebum’s hand loose on his hip.

Jinyoung presses a long kiss to his mouth; lips parting tacky and sweet. He smiles, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Jaebum replies, voice hushed. He brings up his spare hand to brush back the tangled mess of hair that’s fallen over Jinyoung’s forehead. “You weren’t in bed when I woke up.”

“You’ll live, I’m sure. Are you making breakfast?”

There’s a tone of hopefulness in Jinyoung’s voice. He's not at all talented in cooking. It’s been good, these past few months living together again, foisting off the task on Jaebum.

It had taken a while, admittedly, to fall back into comfortable pattern. Jinyoung being particular over what goes where - his books, his records, his notebooks - while Jaebum sequestered tiny pockets of the apartments as his own, holing up in them for hours at a time.

But they’re learning to live with each other again.

“What do I get in return?” Jaebum asks. He takes the apple and the tea towel and sets them aside, pulls Jinyoung in closer.

Jinyoung rolls his eyes. Says, dryly, “The pleasure of feeding your child?”

Jaebum cocks his head, sucks in air through his teeth, lips pulled in a smirk. “Hoping for a different kind of pleasure-”

Jinyoung smacks him over the head, but they end up giggling like schoolchildren, pressed up so close together.

“What are you doing?”

They turn. Yugyeom is at the mouth of the hallway, hands flopping in front of him mid-shake. He’s still pantless, but he has graduated to wearing socks at least. Jinyoung’s doesn’t know whether that’s better or worse.

“I’m kissing Appa good morning,” Jaebum says plainly, disentangling himself. “Why, do you want one too?”

Yugyeom pulls a face, as if he’s not always the first one queuing for Daddy’s kisses.

“Don’t want a kiss,” he shrugs. “Want pancakes.”

“And I,” Jinyoung cuts in swiftly, rounding the island to get to the kid, “would like you to put some clothes on. Appa’s not kidding, Yugyeom, it’s too cold.”

“But Appa,” Yugyeom whines. He’s pouting ferociously, even though he’s pliable in Jinyoung’s hands, letting his father turn him around and march him down the hall.

“But nothing,” Jinyoung maintains. “Or else you won’t be able to have Daddy’s pancakes.”

It’s a small struggle to get the kid to co-operate. His skinny legs spring this way and that way (basically anywhere but the pant legs of his pyjamas).

Jinyoung kneels by the edge of the bed, where he’d gone to extract the trousers from its hiding place, and looks exasperated. He caves, begging, “Baby, please? _Please_ would you wear this?”

Yugyeom stops short. It’s not often he hears desperation in his father’s voice - Jinyoung’s a little humiliated really, but he perseveres.

“Be a good boy for Appa?”

Yugyeom considers this, already reaching out for the waistband of the soft blue flannel trousers.

“I’m a good boy,” he says speculatively. He rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Jinyoung so close to victory he can almost taste it, but he makes sure his face doesn’t show it.

When he finally gets the kid into some pyjama pants, he’s able to reward him with some warm fluffy pancakes right after.

Yugyeom eats it with gusto, sticky chocolate syrup smeared over his cheeks and his fingers. He insists on eating with his hands, because of course he does.

They eat breakfast like that: relaxed, happy. It fills Jinyoung’s entire being with a sense of floatiness.

After, he stands against the washing machine and cups his warm mug of freshly brewed peppermint tea as Jaebum finishes up eating.

The machine has a fresh load and the sounds of the water pumping into the barrel fills the apartment - a thin, chugging _pump, pump, pump,_ and pause. Then all over again.

Yugyeom slides off of his chair when the machine begins the mechanic whir of its cycle. After a cursory clean up of his face and hands, he wanders over to the living room.

Brushing past Nora, who’s deigned to bless them with her presence once again, he walks past the couch towards the large windows.

It’s not a terribly exciting view. From their own apartment, they’re faced with rows and rows of rectangle windows with plain curtains, pretty netting, or heavy-duty  blinds.

Their front yard is a beautiful maze of flowers and open spaces, that Jinyoung thinks would be perfect for hot summer afternoons. And, if you stand watch for long enough, it’s easy to pick out the pattern of people coming and going from the 7-11 on the corner of the next block over.

So it’s not much. But the twinkling fairy lights of their Christmas tree makes it a little bit more special.

Yugyeom sits on his butt by the base of the tree. There are a few piles of wrapped presents in various different colours and patterns.

It’s the kid’s favourite holiday (every holiday is his favourite) even though they don’t really celebrate it in Korea the same way Jaebum did in the States.

Yugyeom is impatient. Jinyoung has caught him several times picking at the sticky tape pressing down the sides.

Now though, he picks up each package carefully and gives it a gentle shake. It’s not even that he’s trying to figure out what’s inside it, but rather that he likes _knowing_ something is inside it - that he’ll get to open it soon, enjoy it.

He holds the packet in his small hands, looks at it, tilts it side to side, then sets it down and starts on the next one.

When he’s done he wanders back to the sofa, the cat in tow. Nora sticks her nose up as she glides noiselessly towards the couch, climbing up with a sharp jump. But she curls into the kid’s lap like nothing more than a ball of soft fur.

Jinyoung takes the blessed opportunity of self-imposed quiet time and starts picking up after the kid. A toy here, a discarded item of clothing there.

But it’s as he’s bending to pick up a spare Lego block, that had rolled under one of the stand tables, that Jaebum grips his upper arm and drags him backwards.

They end up in the smallest bedroom of the apartment, that has been converted into a home studio for Jaebum.

It happens so fast. One second Jinyoung’s collecting the kid’s toys and the next he's pressed up against the heavy, soundproof door; Jaebum’s hand hot against him.

“Oh-, crap,” is what Jinyoung says the moment Jaebum’s lips inch over to spill a fountain of warm kisses on his neck. “Right now?”

“Yeah, right now,” Jaebum replies, heavy - teeth set against the sensitive skin right under Jinyoung’s jaw. “I missed you in bed this morning.”

Jinyoung sinks his fingers into his thick hair, dragging him upwards so he can kiss him, tongue sweeping into his mouth as he pulls him closer.

“Yugyeom’s right outside,” he warns breathlessly.

“Door’s locked,” Jaebum murmurs, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of Jinyoung’s pyjamas. Their eyes are heavy-lidded, locked on each other. “I’ll be quick.”

Jinyoung smirks, can’t help himself, “You’re always quick.”

Nimble fingers pinch at the soft skin of his waist until he’s squirming.

“Watch your mouth,” Jaebum says, but there’s an edge of petulance there.

“I’m right though.”

The studio goes quiet; the soft scratch of fingers in thick hair, breaths from two people wrapped up close in each other, heartbeats.

Jinyoung’s only teasing.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Jaebum murmurs. “Jingyoung-ah.”

“I do,” Jinyoung replies, just as quietly.

He shuffles back and slides to his knees awkwardly, the solid door behind him not helping. The sleeve of his shirt gets caught on the handle before Jaebum disentangles him.

But then Jinyoung is pulling down Jaebum’s pants while Jaebum breathes heavily above him, one thick forearm planted on the door, other hand cupping Jinyoung’s head.

He takes him in his mouth, works him over slowly, leaving trails of wet heat - eyes flickering up to meet Jaebum’s blown-out expression.

He’s so hot in his mouth, alive, pulsing. It pushes Jinyoung’s hand to his own crotch, squeezing down with each boiling wave of lust that rolls over him.

Even with his mouth full, he’s unable to keep the noises at bay. But every sigh - every choked grunt and mindless groan - edges Jaebum that little bit closer. The vibrations run up his spine, leave him shivering.

Everything is optimised to get him off as fast as possible.

Jinyoung loves doing this, loves stripping him down bare like this, but they don’t live in a bubble - and they need to get back to real life as soon as possible.

So he guides and suckles and moans until Jaebum is spilling hot and heavy over his mouth.

Jinyoung licks his lips as he pushes Jaebum’s hips back, and he can’t help but look self-satisfied.

“Come here,” Jaebum grunts, dragging him up by the arm. He’s sweating, beads of it at his hairline and running down the column of his throat. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

He turns Jinyoung around roughly, presses him into the door before his hand sneaks into his pants. Jaebum gets him off quick and dirty - no preamble about it.

His thumb is docked under the swell of the head, fingers teasing the wet slit. His other hand fists in Jinyoung’s shirt and lifts, presses him closer to his chest, so they’re connected from head to toe.

When Jinyoung looks down all he can see is Jaebum’s hand encompassing him. His vision blurs, static forming a halo around everything he can see.

He’s distantly aware that he’s panting loudly, it’d be embarrassing, really, if it were anyone other than Jaebum.

In the end, he comes with strong contractions of his belly, spilling over Jaebum’s fist; weak, jelly-kneed. His chest feels absent, like someone numbed the entire centre portion of his ribcage.

But, _damnit,_ he managed to get it on the floor too.

Jaebum unwraps himself from him, stumbling to the locked drawer where they keep “the supplies” (as Minhyuk is fond of calling it) stocked.

Jinyoung’s life, these past few months, have been wholly too characterised by clandestine bathroom and studio sex.

He pulls up his underwear and the elasticated band of his pyjamas over his hips. Behind him, Jaebum is rifling through the drawer, pushing aside the bottle of lube, condoms from at least three different brands, and mints.

Jaebum tosses him a packet of wet wipes and unrolls some tissue paper to wipe their mess on the laminate flooring.

Jinyoung wipes his hands carefully. He’s hurtled head forward in pensiveness, slight hints of turmoil filling in all the empty spaces Jaebum’s touch carved out in him.

He’s still methodically wiping his hands when he says, “I want to take Yugyeom to visit my parents next week.”

He says it plainly, matter-of-fact. But it is a shock.

Jaebum’s deposited the dirty tissues in the bin in the corner, still breathing heavily, and he’s looking at Jinyoung like he just grew two heads.

“Would you be okay with that?” Jinyoung asks.

Jaebum’s hands lift helplessly at his side.

“You-,” he stops. Starts, “You want to talk about this now?”

Jinyoung’s brow twitches. “Oh, sorry,” he says, sardonic. “Should I have booked an appointment?”

Jaebum rolls his eyes, tone dry. “Let me at least get rid of the come on my hands before we start talking about this.”

Jinyoung’s nose wrinkles. It smells too hot and stuffy in here; a dense smell of them. He steps forward to lean over Jaebum’s console and open the window.

Then he heads back to the door to unlock it. They end up on the floor, thighs touching. Jaebum passes him a breath mint.

“Have you spoken to Yugyeom about it?”

Jinyoung bites down. Crunching is the only sound between them for a moment.

“No,” he says. Then, “I don’t like this flavour.”

“So why are you asking me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Jaebum considers it, features rolling through a whole host of complicated expressions. Jinyoung has no idea how even to begin reading them.

“It’s personal,” he settles on saying. But he presses his lips together - that’s not exactly what he means to say, it doesn’t capture the essence of it. “I’m the father of your child-”

“You’re my partner,” Jinyoung interrupts. Jaebum looks surprised, then extraordinarily, quietly happy. Jinyoung’s cheeks sting, red. He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”

“This is about your parents, Jinyoung.”

“This is about our son,” Jinyoung counters. “I thought you’d appreciate input in who he gets to meet. We do things together now, Jaebum. Don’t forget that. Your opinion is important to me.”

Jaebum’s fingers twitch. “I want what you want, sweetheart. Especially in something like this.”

It’s been a long time coming. Almost a year of awkward, stunted telephone conversations leading up to this moment. Years and years before that.

It feels almost unreal now that it’s here. A decision almost too big for Jinyoung to make alone.

The door handle jerks, arresting both their attentions. A second’s pause, and then it’s pulled down.

It opens slowly, like a horror movie, but then it reveals the kid, teddy bear under one arm, while the other hangs off of the handle.

He watches them, they watch him.

“Why you're here?” he demands, letting the handle go with a sharp thwack. Indignation sharpens his voice high. “You were _hiding?”_

Jinyoung laughs, even as the kid glowers at them.

(Though he comes easily, falling into Jinyoung’s embrace, when Appa beckons him in.)

-

Jinyoung is home by himself the next day, Sunday. It’s colder. Nora is at the vet, and Jaebum has taken Yugyeom for a walk in the crisp winter air.

Christmas is approaching, and there are new lights all over Seoul. So Jaebum wrapped the kid up like a bumbling balloon of warmth, and off they had set.

Jinyoung preferred to stay at home. He’s had lots to do. In particular, putting off this phone call for as long as he could.

It’s been a very long-time since Jinyoung’s used a landline for an outbound call, even though he’s had one in practically every house he’s lived in .

Their model is slim, but it feels bulky in his hands. Each button he presses feels like a millennium. He still remembers the number by heart.

The line rings, one, two, three times. A click. A quick breath.

“Hello?”

It’s his mother’s voice: light and rushed, like you've caught her on the precipice of something important.

Jinyoung rubs his thumb over the buttons of the handset.

“It’s me,” he says awkwardly. He feels shy, even though he’s alone at home with no-one to see him. “It’s-, it’s Jinyoung.”

“Oh,” his mother says. She sounds just as awkward, just as surprised that they’re having a conversation at all. But there’s something deeper in her voice, a sigh, an emotion he can’t quite grasp. “Jinyoung.”

He makes it a quick phone call. Blurts out whether she’d like to see the kid. He can’t stand the heat itching at his palms.

“So next weekend?” he confirms.

“Yes,” she says, always so proper. “Before Christmas.”

Jinyoung pauses. “You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

He can’t help but point it out - because they were always a family of Korean tradition. Nonsense, she called everything else. Absolute nonsense.

“Yugyeom,” she starts. “Yugyeom will like Christmas, won’t he?”

The front door unlocks. The kid wanders in first, then Jaebum with Nora in her travel box.

Yugyeom’s eyes find Jinyoung leaning against the wall, phone pressed tight against his ears, and he smiles. His teeth are so cute and round; his lower left-side canine is starting to wobble.

“Yes,” Jinyoung says, watching as Jaebum puts down Nora to undo the buttons on the kid’s puffa jacket. “He likes it a lot.”

“Well then,” his mother says. “It’s settled.”

—

There’s something nostalgic about the train to Changwon.

Even though these new trains are ones Jinoung never experienced in his youth, and now he has a tiny passenger to contend with.

The one thing that truly stirs up the spirit of the past is the robotic voice - a light, feminine Seoul tone; perfectly pleasant, perfectly bland.

He remembers how it sounded back then, reverberating over the wide metallic framework of Seoul station. He, a skinny teenager with a bulky backpack and one single battered suitcase, stood in awe.

The overlapping announcements drilled into his body. When he went to sleep that night, his first night at his new dorm (with a quiet, shy boy a few years older than him named Hyunwoo) it kept running through his thoughts.

Yugyeom tugs at Jinyoung’s pocket, glancing around - caught between wonder and apprehension.

He’s wrapped up warm, insulated from the windy draft of the inside of the station. His fleece-lined hat is tied under his chin, and he has the matching mittens on. He’s lugged his backpack all the way from the car and refuses to let Jinyoung take it. It’s not very heavy at all, though.

“You’ll be okay on your own?” Jaebum asks. He’s sorting the tickets into two neat piles - going and return. The train hisses and chuffs on the track beside them; it’s just arrived. Masses and masses stream out of the slim door openings and onto the platform.  

Yugyeom presses in tighter to Jinyoung as Jaebum steps closer - taking the hit of unmindful shoulders and elbows. There’s still a while before the train is due to leave.

“I can come with you,” he says to Jinyoung. He watches him eagerly, with a worried set to his mouth. His eye bags are a little more prominent under the harsh bright lights of the station. Work has been piling up again, and Jinyoung sets aside a reminder to nag him to eat better and sleep more.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, adjusting his speaking volume to be heard. He lifts his hand to pat Yugyeom’s head as the kid is pushing his face into his thigh. “We’ll be fine.”

“There’s still time for me to grab a ticket,” Jaebum says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the row of self-ticketing machines lined up against an alcove. He looks so worried. “I’ll call the company and-”

“Hyung,” Jinyoung interrupts. He doesn’t do it harshly. But he bites down on his lip, guilt flaring up at the look on Jaebum’s face. “Thank you.” He pauses, trying to choose his words carefully. “I would love for you to come. But I think I need to do this. Alone.”

Jaebum bites the inside of his lip. He nods, trying to appear nonchalant. He avoids Jinyoung’s eye though.

“Of course,” he says, patting Yugyeom’s head perfunctorily. “Don’t worry about it.”

But worry Jinyoung does. He feels like he can’t function, and his hands are going numb with the cold. He’d prefer not to be doing this at all, actually.

“I need this to go well,” he finds himself explaining. His breath mists in the air, a vapor almost as dense as he tension churning around them. “I won’t be able to-, to _think_ properly if I’m worried about you, about how they’ll treat you, whether-.”

He stops.

“Daddy?” Yugyeom asks, tapping Jaebum’s overcoat with the flat of his free mitten.

Jinyoung and Jaebum both know what Jinyoung was about to say, though they don’t verbalise it. What if it all goes wrong, what would Jinyoung do then?

“I get it,” Jaebum says. The collar of his coat trembles against the lapel, Yugyeom’s little hand is relentless.

“Daddy,” he whines, lips pursing at being ignored.

Jinyoung takes a deep breath. “Do you?”

They look at each other.

“Maybe not as you’d like me to,” Jaebum admits. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t empathise, Jinyoung-ah.”

 _“Daddy!”_ Yugyeom screeches, stomping one foot of his light-up sneakers. It’s loud enough for more than a few heads to turn.

 _“Yes,_ Yugyeom-ah?” Jaebum returns, just as snappish. It brings the kid up short, eyes wide in his face. Jaebum softens, “What’s the matter?”

The kid digs the toes of his sneaker into the floor, mittened hand tugging at Jinyoung’s pocket with the movement. His hat makes his red cheeks look extra round.

“We’re going on a train today,” he says, voice lilting at the edges like it’s a question.

 Jaebum glances at the sky for patience before sharing a long-suffering look with Jinyoung, who tries to smother a laugh. 

“Yes,” Jinyoung says. He looks at Jaebum pointedly. “We are. And we should go, before we miss it.”

Jaebum licks his dry lips, nods to himself, and then sets about fussing. He hands Jinyoung the tickets and herds them both towards the correct carriage.

“Daddy, you’re not going?” Yugyeom asks as Jaebum kneels in front of him, making sure he has everything he needs in his bag. “We’re going on the train by ourselves?”

“Yeah,” Jaebum says to him, pulling him closer by his bulky raincoat. He hugs him tight. “But you won’t be gone for very long. I’ll see you and Appa tonight, is that okay?”

“Not going for very long time,” Yugyeom repeats, but there’s a small smile on his face. “That’s okay.”

“Yes,” Jinyoung interrupts. Behind them there’s the long-whistle of a readying departure. “But we really have to go now.”

Jaebum gives the kid a long kiss, then he stands backing up. Jinyoung leans forward to squeeze his hand, brief but inundated with intimacy. Jaebum’s eyes soften, almost caramel brown under the bright lights.

“Call me when you arrive,” he says, waving. “Let me know how it goes. Yugyeom-ah, behave.”

Yugyeom is too busy trying to climb up the train’s step, Jinyoung holding his hand. But he huffs and puffs a goodbye.

Jinyoung lets him go in front, turning one last time to catch Jaebum’s eyes, like magnets that can’t help but be drawn to each other.

He follows them down the carriage from outside. Standing by their window as they get settled in. Yugyeom’s plastered to it, almost one with the glass until the train chugs along and Jaebum becomes a blur left behind.

-

Jinyoung’s stomach feels like it’s filled with too much acid as soon as Changwon fills the outside of the windows.

The clear sun has stretched out to here too, melting the pockets of snow still idling on fields and long stretches of road.

“Let’s tidy up,” Jinyoung says to Yugyeom, where his son has set himself a nice little station of activity.

The seat tray has been let down. On it is the iPad, a plastic container of sliced fruits on one side of the compartment and a half-eaten sandwich on the other.

Yugyeom’s juice bottle is in his hands, on his lap, while the remains of his favourite biscuits litter the tray, the seat, and his cheeks.

He’s surprisingly agreeable as Jinyoung packs everything away. It’s just about ticking into noon, and they’ve been up and active for hours now.

They manage to get out of the train and on to the platform without injury. Jinyoung grips Yugyeom’s hand tight as he leads him into the taxi.

The driver tries to make light conversation, but Jinyoung’s mind is focused elsewhere. Yugyeom, however, responds enthusiastically after a moment or two of shyness.

But then he gets more invested in scenery-watching.

“Been in Seoul long?” the driver asks Jinyoung. His accent is broad, curling over his tongue, and his words are choppy, sentences starting barely before the previous finishes. “You don’t sound like you’re from these parts no more. Couldn’t resist coming home, eh?”

His eyes flicker to Jinyoung through the rear-view mirror, friendly, passive.

Jinyoung hums. His accent tightens, retreating into politeness. “It’s been a long time.”

The driver - Kwon Moonhyuk as per a laminated lanyard wrapped three times around the stem of the mirror - doesn’t seem to notice Jinyoung’s evasiveness. Or, if he does, he doesn’t particularly care.

“Here for the holidays?” he asks next. The car ticks, they turn a corner.

Yugyeom strains against his seatbelt to watch the scenery go by, fingertips pressing on the rim of the window.

“Yes,” Jinyoung says.

Kwon Moonhyuk watches him with expectation. And there, right there in his dark brown eyes, sparks some curiosity.

Jinyoung swallows tightly. He feels like he’s being impolite, even though it’s his privacy that’s being invaded.

“To visit family,” he ends up caving, mustering a small smile. He wipes his hand on his trouser, grips the fabric tight in his fist. “My parents.”

“Ah,” the drive says, curiosity dimming. He taps his thick fingers on the steering wheel and nods to himself. “That’s good, good. I have three of my own, you know?”

Jinyoung nods absently, glancing out of the window. If he squints and turns his head a little, he can make out the peak of his middle school’s roof.

“They don’t live too far. And they never forget to come home,” the driver is saying. He makes to slow to an idle as they turn into an orange traffic light - will it it turn red or green? “Apart from one, but, that’s-”

The slow-down is bumpy, Yugyeom hiccoughs at the side as he takes in the minor impact. It’s green, and they hurtle forward.

“Have to remember your parents this day and age,” Kwon Moonhyuk continues. There’s a nostalgic quality to his voice, like he's talking through Jinyoung to his own life, own memories. “Too many forget to pay their dues. There’s no-one that can do for you what your parents do.”

He turns slightly to catch Jinyoung’s eye, sharing a wry smile. His fingers play an irregular rhythm on the leather.

Jinyoung stutters out a reply. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

The driver makes a low noise as they enter the familiar winding streets of Jinyoung’s neighbourhood.

“But you look like a good son,” he murmurs, after clearing his throat. “Fillial. Visiting regularly. That’s a good son.”

Jinyoung doesn’t know what to do, but he says “thank you” like he was raised to.

Yugyeom makes almost nonsensical noises to himself, chin resting on his hand as he watches everything go by.

Jinyoung remembers everything about this place, and he wonders how it all looks through his son’s eyes. He wants to point out every morsel and detail.

Look here, he’d say, that’s where Appa got a big ugly scrape from falling from a slide. Over there is where the _patbingsu_ stall used to be on hot summer evenings. And there is the bus stop that Appa would run to everyday before school.

“Just here is fine,” Jinyoung says quietly, as it begins to slope after the bus stop. He’s already undoing his seat belt. “Thank you.”

“Here?” Kwon Moonhyuk replies, surprised. As if remembering Jinyoung is just a customer and not an old friend. He’s already slowing down the car towards the curb. “Are you sure?”

“Thank you,” Jinyoung repeats, paying him quickly. He pops open the car door, extending a hand to help Yugyeom shuffle out.

“Bye bye,” the kid says to the driver, just as he gets to the edge of the seat. “Thank you.”

The man chuckles, twisting around to watch him clamber out of the car.

“I remember when my girls were that age,” he says to Jinyoung. Then, to the kid. “Have a good visit. Be a good boy.”

“Okay,” Yugyeom says, incredibly agreeable. He clutches Jinyoung’s hand, practically bouncing from one foot to the other. In English he says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” the driver exclaims in thick accented English, laughing. He looks delighted, and Yugyeom’s chest puffs up. He loves making people happy.

Yugyeom waves him off, until the crochet doily interior is but a speck in the distance.

Holding Yugyeom’s hand, Jinyoung descends the slope. It’s not a very steep or long hill, and he knows practically how many steps it takes until he gets to his parent’s home.

They’re there in no time. Too quick.

On the house directly next to it, a tall woman, about his own mother’s age, waters the petunias in her garden.

He doesn’t recognise her at all. Must be a newer neighbour. She’s incredibly thin, with stark collarbones and a long neck. Everything about her is sharp, from the way she holds herself to the way she watches Jinyoung and Yugyeom.

She takes in everything about them with her mouth pursed, the lines around them prominent. Her eyes wander from Jinyoung, to his parent’s front door, and finally to Yugyeom.

Jinyoung bows to her quickly, herding the kid on to the short stone pathway to the door. He doesn’t hang around to see if she responds or not.

He raps his knuckles on the door mostly as a means to distract himself from the heavy weight of the neighbour’s gaze.

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s here, finally, until he hears the lock unlatch.

His heart jumps in his throat, his hand tightens around Yugyeom’s tiny mittened one.

The door opens. For a moment, Jinyoung can’t see anything, and then his father appears.

His hair is an even glossy black - the kind you get from a box or a bottle - and he’s clutching a silk handkerchief and his reading glasses in one hand.

“Hello,” Jinyoung says after a moment of staring at each other. He’s surprised that he can verbalise it. It feels so feeble coming out of his chest.

His father‘s gaze falters, eyes fixing on Yugyeom, who’s watching him back with detached curiosity, swinging Jinyoung’s hand.

“Jinyoung,” his father says, voice thick. He hesitates for a second, then he kneels - offering the kid a tentative smile. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Yugyeom replies, shyness creeping back into the edges of his voice. He hides behind Jinyoung’s hand.

“We’ve been expecting you,” his father says. “Do you know who I am?”

Yugyeom’s lips part. He glances up at Jinyoung, and then back down to the man in front of him. He shakes his head, but only a little - like he knows it’s the wrong answer.

“Oh,” Jinyoung’s father says. “Oh, I see.”

He’s disappointed. Of course he is. But Jinyoung wills himself not to feel guilty about it (even though it’s already gnawing at him).

His father’s not angry about it. Almost like he half expected it. He glances up at Jinyoung, uses his hands on his knees to stand up straight.

“Will you come in?” he asks.

His tone is so agreeable, pleasant. The things he’s saying are so pedestrian. As if this giant decade-long chasm doesn’t exist between them.

“Umma is just out at the store,” he says, backing into the hyeongwan, leaving space for them to enter. “She’ll be back soon. Come in, Jinyoung.”

“Yes,” Jinyoung says. “Let’s go in.”

He glances around, at the nosy neighbour and quiet suburban street he knows like the back of his hand.

Then he guides Yugyeom over the threshold, takes a deep breath, and he too takes the plunge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man,
> 
> it's still the christmas period isn't it? 
> 
> （・⊝・）

-

Jinhae, in Changwon, is just as modern and busy as Seoul is. But, perhaps, with a little more space to breathe.

Jinyoung’s childhood home is a compact building in the suburbs, on a steep hill surrounded by equally compact modern townhouses built in the seventies or eighties. There isn’t a garden (if you discount the rectangle patch of wild daisies at the front) but at least there’s a second-floor veranda attached to the master bedroom.  

It’s comfortable. Always _just_ big enough to fit in five people (though not enough to give Jinyoung the space he always craved).

The hyeongwan is at the mouth of a short corridor. It’s square and angular - with a small dent on the far edge corner, where his sister had accidentally dropped her bicycle on it almost twenty years ago, now.  

On the right of the corridor is the staircase, the kitchen at the far end, and doors to the downstairs bathroom and sitting room on the left.

Yugyeom stumbles in front of Jinyoung, taking everything in with wide eyes. His fingers are clumsy on the big buttons of his coat, the baby fat under his chin doubles as he peers down to undo it.

Jinyoung’s father can’t take his eyes off of the kid. He’s standing in the corridor, on the panelled wood flooring, worn soft after years of socked feet.

Jinyoung is very polite when he speaks. He takes Yugyeom’s small coat, draping it over his arm. Says, “I hope we didn’t come at a bad time.”

His father looks at him, there are a few deeper lines around his almond-shaped eyes but his gaze is direct, clear. There’s gentleness in there too.

“Nonsense,” he replies, fingers twitching around the thin metal frame of his glasses. “We’ve been waiting for you both.” He pauses, hesitating, then, “I’m glad you’re here, Jinyoung.”

Jinyoung’s lips press together, but he inclines his head in acknowledgement. It’s on the tip of his tongue - _burning_ \- to say ‘I am too’. He means it even though he can’t quite bring himself to say it.

Instead, he fixes his gaze on Yugyeom, where the kid is huffing and puffing as he tries to undo the knot of his hat.

Jinyoung doesn’t ever recall seeing his parents with children. He was the youngest after all, and all his cousins were much older.

Now he watches how his father takes to it easily. He kneels to Yugyeom’s height, depositing his glasses and handkerchief on the floor beside him, and sighs warmly.

“Oh dear,” he says to him. “Appa tied your hat too tightly. Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Yugyeom complains, voice tacky with mulishness. “Can’t take it off.”

Jinyoung’s father tries to smother his smile, the corner of his mouth ticking up. Yugyeom _is_ very cute.

“Would you like me to try?”

Yugyeom juts his chin up in permission, staying still as the older man carefully picks at the knot of the hat. He does it quickly, folding the hat in half before he takes in the shock of Yugyeom’s messy hair.

“I’m Yugyeom,” the kid offers after a moment, pulling at the hem of his soft sweater. “Who are you?”

Jinyoung bristles at the bluntness, warning, low, “Yugyeom.”

But Jinyoung’s father only chuckles, the lines crowing around his eyes like Jinyoung’s, but deeper - almost set into his skin.

He rubs Yugyeom’s arm, hand lingering.

“I’m Euiwoong,” he says. “I’m-.” He pauses, dashing a glance over at Jinyoung. “I’m someone your appa knew a very long time ago. But I’ll tell you all about that later.”

“Okay,” Yugyeom says. Jinyoung can see the questions brimming in his expression. The kid watches Euiwoong curiously. “You live here?”

Jinyoung’s father nods once. “Yes. With my wife, Seunghee.”

“I live in Seoul,” Yugyeom tells him. He digs his socked foot into the wood, swaying closer to his grandfather. “In a house with my appa and my daddy.”

Dread pools in a coil in Jinyoung’s stomach. He holds his breath, clutching Yugyeom’s things closer to his chest.

There’s a long awkward pause.

Heat prickles at the back of his neck and he’s distinctively aware of his father consciously avoiding looking at him. But it’s been too long, Jinyoung doesn’t know how to read him anymore.

“Yes,” his father repeats, voice quieter. “I know.”

He places his hands on the knees of his slacks to stand up with a familiar groan.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. He’s extended a hand towards Yugyeom, but he’s asking Jinyoung.

A beat too late, Jinyoung answers with a wan smile, “Yes. A little.”

His father leads Yugyeom ahead into the sitting room.

There’s a sturdy leather couch right in front of the large window, a paperback novel face-down on the blanket that is always tucked into the seat cushions.

A modestly-sized television rests in the alcove of the big wooden cabinet that forms the centrepiece of the room. It’s a block of glossy cherry wood, with lightly-stylised windows. Normally it shows the best of his parent’s fine china and ornaments. Today, it’s significantly emptier.

Instead, the bowls and glassware are arranged over the coffee table with its cream-coloured tablecloth; floral stitch-hemming forming a border in ivory.

The bowls are filled with a variety of side-dishes - stuffed peppers, braised tofu, a small plating of grilled octopus beside a bunch of vibrant lettuce leaves.

Yugyeom gasps, practically salivating. He’s having a good day already, the fact that there’s the prospect of food just makes him delighted.

“Does it look good?” his grandfather asks him. He’s holding his tiny hand tightly in his. Jinyoung’s heart twists. “You like it?”

The kid wanders over to the table, dragging Jinyoung’s father by the hand, peering at everything. He doesn’t touch though, unoccupied hand behind back like he’s testing himself. He says, quietly, “Yeah, it looks yummy.”

“Mrs Kim from down the street if you’ve got ₩170,000 handy.”

Yugyeom doesn’t get the joke. But he plucks at his bottom lip and repeats, thoughtfully, “Yeah.”

Jinyoung’s dad chuckles, ruffling the kid’s hair before he takes him on a short tour of the room.

Not much has changed in the years since Jinyoung’s been here. Or, at least, he doesn’t think it has.

His memory’s hazy at best - a combination of time and, well, trauma. Jinyoung doesn’t like to think about it from that aspect though.

He sits down carefully on the couch, listens out for that familiar aspiration of soft leather reshaping itself. Then he folds his hands on his lap.

Pale beams of fresh Changwon sunlight filter through the netting on the window, lighting up minute particles of golden dust floating, floating.

There’s the same kind of airiness in Jinyoung’s stomach too. He’s not nervous or worried, or at least he doesn’t feel it. He feels calm. Serene, almost.

The slight scent of wood polisher and home calms him. But it also feels artificial somehow, like the other shoe is just waiting to drop.

He clenches a hand in the stiff cotton of his new slacks, watching as his dad opens the bottom compartment of the old wooden cabinet.

From where he’s sitting, Jinyoung can just about make out thick colourful hangul characters. He has to turn his head to the side if he wants to read them. It’s boxes stacked upon boxes stacked upon boxes.

Slim, with pronounced creasing and tears at the edges, and gaudy 90s and early 2000s marketing styles. It’s Jinyoung’s entire childhood—a messy stack of family board games, worn down with use and love.

Yugyeom reaches out to touch with the pads of his fingers, unusually careful. He’s leaning heavily on Jinyoung’s father’s shoulder - like they’ve known each other for five years instead of five minutes.

“Games?” he questions, poking a chubby finger into a Snake set.

“Yes. You like games, Yugyeom?” Jinyoung’s father says. “I like them very much.”

“Me too,” the kid is eager to jump in, always craving inclusion. “I like them too.”

They regard each other, and then Yugyeom smiles, a small, shy little thing. He seems so comfortable.

It’s not so long after that that the front door rattles. It shakes Jinyoung out of his reverie, and he finds himself standing without really meaning to.

His father, in the process of taking out the huge Blue Marble box, glances quickly at Jinyoung before standing to disappear into the hall.

Yugyeom wanders back over to Jinyoung, wrapping an arm around his father’s thigh so he can smush his face against his hip.

The sound of rustling plastic drifts from the hallway. His parents are whispering furiously - they’ve always been unaware of how loud their whispering actually was.

It would make Jinyoung smile, if his heart wasn’t in his throat. The whispering drops, and then his mother is stepping around the door jamb into the living room.

She stops abruptly in her tracks, like she’s surprised they’re there, in the flesh. Her hair is pulled lightly back with a silver clasp while her down-jacket almost reaches her knees. She’s clutching a flimsy plastic bag in her hand.

Her eyes swing from Jinyoung to Yugyeom, trying to take them in all at once. Jinyoung’s father appears behind her shoulder, holding two heavier plastic bags he must have taken from her.

“Jinyoung-ah.” It clambers out of her mouth with a sigh. They flinch at the same time.

His mother clears her throat and her smile trembles just slightly at the corners. “Jinyoung.”

She looks much smaller than Jinyoung remembers her to be. His mind blanks with the sudden brutal thought: she’s getting old. And it scares him stiff.

But then she takes a step forward and he catches a glimpse of the neat walking sneakers she’s wearing instead of the rounded, low-heeled pumps she could never live without.

His heart beats dully. Change, he thinks now, is a bitter thing.

“Hi,” he says, and the words tumble from his lips too.”Umma.”

Jinyoung bites down on his lip, it feels too soon and yet, he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say. His father puts down the plastic bags, hooks his thumbs into the belt hoops of his trousers.

“Umma?” repeats a little voice.

Yugyeom has his fingers pressed against his lips as he assesses the two older adults across from them. After a long second, he tears his gaze away to look up at Jinyoung.

There’s a small crease between his brows. It’s a habit intrinsic to Yugyeom. One that Jaebum entirely dislikes - spends at least a third of his conversations with the kid repeating a stern, “stop it, or you’ll be stuck like that forever.” But Yugyeom never listens, only laughs and pushes his father’s hand away.

It’s much more serious now - curiosity rather than mischief.

Jinyoung swallows tightly, smoothing Yugyeom’s frown out with the gentle pad of his thumb.

“Can you say hi, Gyeom-ah?” he asks, hand straying to his son’s back. His voice sticks to the dryness of his throat. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

-

They end up arranged on the couches by themselves - he and Yugyeom. Jinyoung’s parents are in the kitchen giving them privacy.

It’s a little far, but the repetitive sound of rustling plastic and the opening and closing of the fridge is still within hearing distance.

Jinyoung sits on one end of the couch, Yugyeom perched on the seat cushion right next to him.

The silence of the sitting room drags on. Jinyoung tries to let everything sink in.

It’s a lot to take in, obviously, and he doesn’t want to overwhelm him. Although, it might be too late for that.

He’d spoken slowly, rubbing Yugyeom’s back, said as gently as he could: _This is Appa’s parents, baby. Your halmeoni and harabeoji. They’ve been waiting a long time to meet you._

Now, Yugyeom’s eyes are wide as they swing from his father to the living room. He’s sitting up high enough now to see some photos placed on a suspended shelf.

There’s Jinyoung’s parents’ wedding photo; a school photograph of Jinyoung’s older sisters still in its original water-stained cardboard frame; and one of Jinyoung during his first or second year at school, in his neat uniform smiling broadly, ears sticking out either side.

Yugyeom’s eyes linger on this for just a second, and then he’s staring at his legs, hanging stiff over the edge of the couch. His lips press together for a moment before parting.

Jinyoung rubs his fingers over his eye socket, taking a deep breath. He wishes desperately that he’d taken him aside a few days ago and explained it all to him earlier.

“I’m sorry,” he says to him. He tucks a finger into the warmth of Yugyeom’s small palm, heart calming a little when Yugyeom squeezes down. “Appa should have spoken to you before. Do you understand what I told you?”

A beat passes.

“Yeah,” Yugyeom answers, but the frown is still pronounced between his short wispy brows. He darts a look at Jinyoung and then away again, he’s sitting very still.

“What is it?”

Yugyeom hesitates, fingers curling around Jinyoung’s finger. But then he seems to have made his mind up about it. “How come-. How come I didn’t see them before?”

And there it is. The question Jinyoung’s been churning and churning over the past couple of days. The script he’d prepared falls away at the crunch time.

He starts unevenly, “They-. They.” He exhales, harsh. Tries again. “Yugyeom-ah. There was a lot, a lot of distance between us before, so it was harder to reach out. To stay together. It’s easier now. It’s _going_ to be easier.”

Or, he hopes it will be anyway. Yugyeom doesn’t seem convinced. He gets his double dose of stubborn scepticism from both Jinyoung and Jaebum.

“Why?” he demands, his hand falls away from his father, though Jinyoung doesn’t let him get too far. “Why it was hard? We can call like we do with Daddy’s-”

“-Yugyeom-”

“-and they don’t live here too-”

“-it’s not that simple-”

“-it’s more far than here-”

 _“Yugyeom,”_ Jinyoung interrupts, too sharp. Yugyeom quietens, but the corners of his mouth pull down. Jinyoung’s handling this badly. He swallows tightly. “Please listen to Appa. It’s not that easy, okay? I wasn’t-, wasn’t _able_ to reach out to my Umma and Appa before, but now-”

“Why?”

Jinyoung stifles a sigh, _“Because._ But now we can, and I want you to meet them because I’m sure you’ll love them as much as they love you.”

Yugyeom stares at him, and his face is almost unreadable. Jinyoung can recognise consternation and confusion, but there’s a little bit of frayed irritation in there too that he doesn’t know what to do with.

Yugyeom moves his hand and pushes himself off of the couch to walk away. Jinyoung lurches for him, grabbing him around his upper arms before he can make it too far.

“Yugyeom-ah. Where are you going?”

Yugyeom’s mouth twists, he glares at Jinyoung. “You’re not telling the _truth.”_

Jinyoung gapes. Coldness grows from out of his chest, his fingers pulse in their grip on his son’s arm. “I’m not telling you _everything,_ because there are things you’re too little to hear -”

Yugyeom gears up to reply, but Jinyoung cuts him off.

“Don’t interrupt,” he says. “There are things I’m not telling you, but don’t you ever say that again, Yugyeom. Appa doesn’t lie. Not to you.”

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. Jinyoung breathing unevenly, Yugyeom’s little mouth twisting.

Then, in a fraction of a second, it changes. Yugyeom’s shoulders drop, stiffness running out of him like water.

He look suitably chastised, and at the same time he looks satisfied - like he’s found what he wanted in his father’s eyes.

It’s such a grown-up way of handling of his emotions that Jinyoung almost forgets that Yugyeom’s only five. But then he blinks. And Yugyeom is just Yugyeom, just his baby again.

He pulls himself from his father’s grip, scratches at the hair behind his ear.

“Can I go play?” he asks.

Jinyoung nods absentmindedly, and watches as Yugyeom picks his way across the room. He crouches to pick of the Blue Marble box on the floor, where his grandfather had left it.

The box is a little too large for him, but it’s not heavy so Jinyoung doesn’t worry too much.

Yugyeom makes it back to the couch in one piece and awkwardly slides the box onto his father’s lap.

Settled in to standing between Jinyoung’s knees, he opens it to start carefully exploring the contents within it.

It’s a silent truce. But Jinyoung will take it anyway.

-

Dinner is awkward.

Though, curiously, not as much as Jinyoung was expecting it to be.  
  
It’s awkward in the way of uneven silences and recognised truths that aren’t quite so true anymore.

(“Would you like some, Jinyoung?” his father asks him, plate of sliced pickled cucumbers held aloft.

“Oh,” Jinyoung replies, half reaching out. He doesn’t remember the last time he's eaten it, has some vague recollections of doing so only to please his parents.)  
  
But it’s not _that_ awkward. Rather, it’s explorative.  
  
Most of it is probably due to Yugyeom. He’s bounced back to himself now, no trace of consternation as he grins - even at Jinyoung.  
  
He holds a pair of plastic training chopsticks his grandmother had brought from the kitchen. It’s brand new, the sticky remnants of E-mart’s pricing sticker still there.  
  
The kid’s eyes are bright and he’s very curious.  
  
“Um,” he says, biting down on a grin. “What’s your favourite colour?”  
  
He’s been firing question after question, like an annoying, cute little woodpecker.

Jinyoung doesn’t have any inclination to stop him. The kid is enjoying himself after all and he would never deny him understanding of his own family. He’s kept too much from him. Besides, they’re both learning new things.  
  
Jinyoung’s parents indulge him. Their answers are patient and thoughtful, truly making Yugyeom feel like he’s the centre of their being.  
  
“Colour?” Jinyoung’s mother says. She uses her chopsticks to slice a tiny portion of braised tofu before she feeds it to Yugyeom. “Maybe green, like the spring.”  
  
“Green is my daddy’s favourite,” Yugyeom says, chewing thoughtfully. “Appa says he likes all of them the same.”

Yugyeom takes a deep breath and sighs it all out. His eyes scan the table and the bowls with contents that have been diminishing by the second.

He points a chubby little finger towards a plate towards the far edge of the table, where Jinyoung’s father sits. “What’s that?” he asks. And so begins the next round of rapid fire questions.

Dinner is over before Jinyoung knows it. He wants to leans back on his palms, stretch like he does after a good meal with a sated belly.

Instead, he watches as Yugyeom falls clumsily on his knees, trying to get as close as possible to where his grandfather is showing him a Lego set carefully mounted in the shape of a white heron.

They’re talking in hushed tones, heads close together. Jinyoung can’t hear what they’re saying.

It’s not even loud. There’s no TV on, just the quiet tinkering noises of his mother collecting the dishes from the table.

She bats his hands away when he tries to help.

“You’re a guest,” she insists, as if she didn’t spend most of his childhood nagging him to do the dishes.

He offers her a small smile, stomach churning. “I’m used to it.” It’s his trade-off with Jaebum at home anyway.

“No, no,” she says, returning his smile. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Just like that, Jinyoung’s dismissed. So when his mother disappears into the kitchen he quietly stands and pads - socked foot by socked foot - out into the hall and up the stairs.

He thought he’d have forgotten, but it seems his body still remembers exactly where he has to step to avoid the deep, groaning creaks of the old wooden stair-boards beneath the carpet.

Of course, the second to last step catches him. It always does.

It’s slightly cooler on the second floor, where the heated floor don’t work as well. Jinyoung heads to the bathroom - cream coloured, dated, with a rogue blue paint splatter on the sink’s porcelain - and then washes his hands slowly.

He dries his hands with his mother’s best hand towels, and then exits back out into the hall. His room is almost exactly opposite.

Just a touch to the left. The door is closed firmly, almost unassuming, and there’s a slither of light that’s probably coming from the windows in the space underneath.  

Jinyoung opens the door with baited breath. It’s mostly empty. The window is open a little, breeze flowing in.

His old bed is tucked into one corner on the left side of the window. While the desk he used to slouch over for hours is on the right.

It feels, as he walks in further, a little hollow in his stomach. He didn’t know what he’d feared more: his room stripped bare of any trace of him, or still filled up with his things - frozen in time.

It’s somewhere in between. When he opens the closet, he finds the coat and jacket he couldn’t live without, his old school shoes, his books - piled up in a corner.

Jinyoung’s vision blurs, breath catching, and he wanders over to the desk. He inspects every inch of this room, finds all the little things that made up to who he was.

He takes a deep breath, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and pulls out his phone to call Jaebum.

His old bed, when he sits down on it, is softer than he remembers it to be. There’s an earth-toned bed-set laid over it, linen, instead of the slightly stiff cotton blue one he had growing up. It’s nice, grown up.

The phone line clicks through after three long rings. Jaebum’s voice is ever-present, with a tiny tinge of tiredness.

“Jinyoung,“ he says immediately. “Are you alright?”

A wave of emotion rolls through Jinyoung, long and overly-generous. But he pulls it back, says, quietly, “Hi, hyung.”

“How are things?”

“It’s …” Jinyoung pauses, dithering over the right words. He closes his eyes briefly, fingers pressing tight against the sockets. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Jaebum murmurs. “Yeah, I’ll bet. How are you doing? How’s Yugyeom?”

“He’s fine. Downstairs with my dad.”

“Jinyoung-”

“They’re not monsters,” Jinyoung interrupts, “Jaebum.” His voice is quiet but still firm, although he understands the worry in Jaebum’s voice. “It’s only for a little while. I’m-. I’m in my room. My old one, from before.”

“How are you finding it?”

Jinyoung tips his head back, blinking slowly in an effort to dispel the blur in his vision. The corners of his eyes feel raw, delicate.

He hums, voice exposing him with a tell-tale wobble. “It’s okay. Familiar but … there’s not much of me left here.”

There’s a long pause. Jaebum’s not the best with handling emotionally-charged moments. Neither is Jinyoung for that matter. They trundle along, together, clueless, wobbling over the precipice of acknowledgement.

“Jinyoung-ah,” Jaebum says eventually, voice crackling steadily over the line. He’s struggling with his words and Jinyoung can just about imagine the shift in his eyes, the way he’s biting down on his lip. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

A tear escapes Jinyoung, he wipes it away with the back of his hand and sniffs. “Don’t be. You don’t need to say anything. It’s enough that you’re with me. But-. I wish you were here.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaebum says, “I'm right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stays on the phone for a little while, and Jinyoung sits in silence - ruminating - for a long while after that.

He stays until there’s movement in his peripheral: his mother, watching him with sad eyes from the threshold.

She hesitates. “May I?”

Jinyoung swallows tightly, wants to retort: _it’s your house._ But instead he tries to clear his throat. Says, hoarsely, “Of course.”

Her face twitches with emotion too quick for Jinyoung to parse out, then it smooths out again. She takes small skittish steps and sits far closer to him than he expected her to.

He tries not to squirm, staring at his short, rounded fingernails and how he’s gripping around the hard plastic of his phone. He wonders how long she’d been standing there.

She’s wearing socks - the colour of cream, with dots of pale mint green forming a border of thistles with bulbous pink flowers above her ankle.

“I think,” she says first, “you must have a lot of question for me.”

He gathers courage in a tight ball his chest and darts a look at her. “I-. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Take your time,” she encourages. Her fingers twitch on her lap like she wants to pat his hand, gently, like she used to. “I can’t promise you that I’ll be the person you need me to be. But I’ll answer your questions.”

So he does. He thinks about it as they sit there, too close together in a bed he’d outgrown by the time he’d reached 14.

His heart beats hard and slow against his ribcage, his mouth feels dry. But he takes a deep breath, says, “What changed? Its-. It’s been ten years, so why now?”

She blinks slowly; once, twice. As careful over her words as he is. “Because I missed you. Because I’ve missed you every day since-. Since.”

Jinyoung’s fingers tighten over his phone, his knees knock together, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You wouldn’t have come back,” his mother prods after a moment. It’s not a question. “If it wasn’t for Yugyeom, you wouldn’t have come back.”

He glances at her. Says, “I don’t know,” because he doesn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t constitute as lying.

Jinyoung’s mother flushes low on her cheeks - mottled cranberry beneath even tanned skin. Her hands are clasped on her lap, and she’s staring at Jinyoung’s empty desk; beyond it, even.

“A lot of mothers lose their children,” she says quietly. If Jinyoung didn’t know any better, he’d think she were talking to herself. “But I never thought I would be one to drive mine away.”

“For what it’s worth,” Jinyoung can’t help but say with an empty laugh, “I didn’t think you would either.”

They stare at each other - apprehension, embarrassment, residual anger. It’s a certain kind of funny that their long-established dynamic has flipped on its head.

He continues, “For a long time, I would do anything for your approval. For Appa’s too. But now my friends, my _partner_ … my child,” Jinyoung says carefully. “They love me just as I am. No change needed.” He catches his mother’s eye. “That’s all I ask from the people in my life.”

He stops there, heart ricocheting against his chest. It’s an unspoken challenge, although Jinyoung isn’t quite so sure he’d have the strength to walk away from his parents again. But he doesn’t say that.

“I understand,” his mother says. She tucks a loosened strand of hair behind her ear. She speaks slowly, words unravelling from her tongue like it’s a physical wound. “I’ve had a long time to think about what I could have done differently. But I loved you, Jinyoung, so fiercely. Almost as much as I hated the idea of-.”

She takes a deep, harsh breath. “Of my son, loving men.”

“I’m gay, Umma,” Jinyoung says plainly. He gives a helpless little shrug when she glances at him, and she exhales on a laugh. It’s less humour and more astonishment.

“You were such a strong-willed little boy,” she says, pressing her lips together. “Always surprising me.” She pauses here, choosing her words carefully. “Umma always thought she was a good person. I guess, the downside of that is when your perception of what’s proper - what’s correct - is challenged, you expose such an _ugly_ side of yourself. That you never thought possible. One you ignored for a long time.”

Jinyoung has a fleeting image of his mother’s face twisted in fury and disgust, beyond anything he’d seen before, and he thinks he understands what she means.

“What do you think now?”

“I-. I don’t know what to think, Jinyoung,” she admits. She sighs, exposing her palms to him. “It takes a long time to learn how to be better. Appa and I, we’re still learning. That’s our journey to take, our burden to carry. But I wish, _I wish,_ to be able to be with you on the other side.”

“Okay,” Jinyoung says quietly, awkwardly. He’s not sure he wants to give a definitive answer on that. But he does smile at her.

She responds in kind, and they watch each other, drinking it all in.  

After a moment, his mother touches her hair self-consciously. “Was that him on the phone? Yugyeom’s…”

“Father,” Jinyoung says when it’s clear she’s leaving it to the air. He says it proudly, with lightness in his chest. “Yugyeom’s father.”

She nods, mulling it over. Then she asks, “Is he good to you?”

Jinyoung’s a little surprised. He wasn’t expecting the question, nor the sincerity within it.

“Yes,” he answers. His heart thumps hard. “He makes me feel whole.”

He doesn’t see her expression as she stands. But when she turns to him a moment later, her eyes are brimming with crystal clear tears - clinging to her short, dark eyelashes and dripping on to the fine lines of her cheekbones.

She doesn’t quite smile, but Jinyoung thinks there’s something happy, radiant, about her expression.

‘I have a few boxes in the attic I can’t quite reach,” she tells him with a choked voice, wiping her palms on her trousers. “Why don’t you come help Umma and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to in the meantime?”

Jinyoung stands too - almost dizzy with lightheadedness when he does. But it feels cathartic too, this exodus of feeling. “Okay,” he repeats. “I will. Umma.”

-

The living room is quiet and dark by the time they head down, glowing a serene, iced blue from the TV screen. Just beyond the curtains, the sun’s beginning to set. The sky is an inky blue-black with thick blustering clouds floating low.  

Yugyeom is perched on the couch next to Jinyoung’s father, short legs propped on the cushion seat, too short to make the curve, while a thick grey blanket is draped over him. Jinyoung approaches carefully, wanting to savour this image, this moment.

But he doesn’t stay hidden for long. Yugyeom’s head turns and catches him, eyes lighting up. He doesn’t make to move from where he’s comfortably tucked into his grandfather’s side, but he kicks up his socked feet in greeting.

“Appa,” he calls out, looking warm and content. Jinyoung comes to sit beside him. “I’m watching some movies.”

“Are you?” Jinyoung asks, exhaling. He tries to make himself more comfortable. He can feel his own father’s gaze on him, and he hopes that the raw redness that had creeped in around the thin skin of his eyes has dispersed by now. “That sounds wonderful.”

Jinyoung watches the movie with Yugyeom and his father for a little longer. There are unboxed games all over the floor next to the wooden cabinet, though nobody seems inclined to do anything about it.

His mother settles into one of the armchairs with a hardcover book of photographs. She pats her knee gently, entices the kid to sit in her lap, and they sit there huddled close together.

“Appa has big ears,” Yugyeom screeches at one particular picture, Jinyoung can’t see what it is from where he’s sitting, but he’s content just watching his son. The kid’s hand is cloddish and ungraceful, turning each page with the flat of his hand, unmindful even when Jinyoung’s mother tries to gentle his movements.

Later, they bring out the leftovers from lunch and eat slowly. Yugyeom blinks more and more lethargically with each bite, and the day starts to catch up to him.

Jinyoung thinks of the long journey home and how cranky the he’ll get the closer it inches to his bedtime. So he starts to pack up right after they’ve finished eating. His father catches the movements and looks reluctant, even though he runs through items Jinyoung might be forgetting.

It’s not until Jinyoung’s father is beckoning Yugyeom over to put his powder blue sweater back on, that Yugyeom starts getting the gist of what’s going on.

He stops in his tracks, eyes his sweater suspiciously. He rubs at his cheek and over his eye. “We’re going for a walk?”

Yugyeom likes walks. Hovers with anticipation by the front door almost every weekend, wheedling for Jaebum to hurry up, _he wants to see the ducks at the park!_

Now, there’s a similar trace of hopefulness in his voice. Jinyoung hates to ruin that.

“We’re going home, Gyeom,” he says gently. He has the kid’s coat bundled up in his arms, and he’s leaning against the door to his parent’s sitting room.

Jinyoung’s chest feels sore when he breathes, and there’s a little bit of a pressure headache forming around the edges of his vision. It’s getting late for him too. The day’s been tougher than he expected it to be, but he also feels better, lighter - like all those years have been idling for too long. He’s ready to go home now though.

Yugyeom, it seems, is not. His bottom lip pushes out in a pout, and his eyes get teary almost instantly. He hasn’t stopped rubbing at his face.

Jinyoung had somewhat anticipated this - not only because the kid is tired, but also because he gets incredibly attached to things, to places, to people.

“No,” Yugyeom says, voice wobbling already. Jinyoung’s dad pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back as the kid pushes his nose into the recess of his neck. “Don’t wanna go home.”

“Yugyeom,” Jinyoung warns, but there’s no heat in his voice. Just tiredness. “Please don’t start. We have to catch the train to catch, remember?”

That’s the final straw for Yugyeom. He just starts bawling, curled into his grandfather’s body. Jinyoung tips his head back, eyes closed, and takes a deep, cleasing breath.

“But I wanna stay here,” Yugyeom hiccoughs, voice pitched high. “Appa, I wanna stay little bit.”

He cries and he cries and he cries, and Jinyoung just watches on helplessly. His parents fuss over the kid, patting his back and running gentle fingers through his hair.

“It’s alright, Yugyeom-ah,” Jinyoung’s father murmurs, swaying the kid in his hold. “You’ll come back soon, huh? We’ll see each other real soon, won’t we?”

The question is mostly placating. Mostly. Jinyoung catches the longing in his father’s eye, but he looks away quickly.

“Gyeom-ah,” Jinyoung tries instead. “You heard harabeoji, let’s go home now, okay? Daddy’s waiting for us.”

“Why don’t you stay, Jinyoung?” his mother cuts in. “It’s getting late and it’s a long way home. You could stay in your room-”

Jinyoung’s breath catches.

His mother notices, and her recovery is swift - as if she didn’t make it at all: “Or in your sisters’. We’ve replaced the girl’s bunk beds with a double bed. It’s not very big, but it’s spacious. Enough for the two of you.” She turns to where Yugyeom’s little face is growing redder even though his cries are minimising into sad, sobbing chirps of noise. “Would you like to stay with us tonight, Yugyeom?”

She says it kindly, and she means well. But Jinyoung wants Jaebum, he wants his bed and, most importantly, he wants people to stop trying to make his parenting decisions for him.

Yugyeom is nodding enthusiastically - his crying has stuttered into crocodile tears the closer he thinks he’s gotten to having his way.

“Okay,” Jinyoung’s mother is saying, “Why don’t we stay here?”

Jinyoung sighs. Perhaps too abruptly he says , “Don’t put ideas in his head.” It deadens the atmosphere for a second, makes heat and self-consciousness prickle all over his body. His parents watch him with guarded gazes.

“Sorry,” he amends. He didn’t mean it like _that._ Or, he wasn’t supposed to anyway. “I mean, if-, if you let him think he can stay, we won’t let it go. We have plans for tomorrow, so we really do need to be going.”  

After much coaxing, some present giving, and lots of promises, they eventually manage to get Yugyeom bundled up and in the back of the family car. The kid looks morosely out of the window, tears smeared all over his face, as he picks uselessly at the seatbelt Jinyoung had bullied him into.

“Thank you for the ride,” Jinyoung says when they clamber out of the car at the station. The air has taken a sharp turn for the cold, but the sky is illuminated. Changwon station’s not bustling tonight, but there are a number of people strolling in and out.

They’re by the drop off point, huddled in a group just on the curb.

Yugyeom’s still sniffing miserably, though he’s gazing at the strangers walking by with curiosity. He’s completely checked out of the conversation, holding tightly (though he’d like to pretend it was _reluctantly),_ to Jinyoung’s hand.

Jinyoung’s parents bend to him to say their goodbyes. Jinyoung misses most of it due to the wind whipping around them, but their affection is clear to read. They leave the kid clutching the presents they’ve given him to his chest. And then, all too soon, it’s Jinyoung’s turn.

Jinyoung presses his lips together and considers each of his parents in turn, awkwardness settling upon them like a mist. He doesn’t know when they’ll be back. He doesn’t know _if_ he will, but he’s glad. To have done this.

“Thank you for having us,” he says sincerely. He fights the urge to shuffle on his feet like a cautioned child. Yugyeom is tugging on his arm. “We had a good time.”

“I’m glad, Jinyoung,” his father says, slipping his hand into his wife’s. “I hope we’ll see you again.”

“You’ll think about what we talked about, won’t you?” Jinyoung’s mother asks. She steps forward, presses a soft, firm kiss on his cheek. He can smell the final notes of her perfume, and he dips forward for a quick, unexpected hug before he knows it. Eyes closing as he buries his nose in her coat.

“I will,” he promises. Then he turns to his dad, getting engulfed in a bear hug. He doesn’t say anything, but Jinyoung can read a conversation the dips and wanes of his arms, in how tightly he holds him. He’s trying, even though they’ve a long way to go yet.  

They wave him and Yugyeom off hand-in-hand, beside their car. Jinyoung walks quickly towards the station, even as the kid toddles next to him.

The station’s big glass windows reflect and refract Jinyoung’s image of his parents, but he can’t help but turn around to catch one last glimpse of them before he disappears through the doors.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on the other hand, great timing with jus2's comeback! 
> 
> we love talented men ♡
> 
> (p.s. i hope you guys liked this! let me know what you think!) 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/exosbebe) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/thelogicoftaste)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're just going to ignore that i posted the last edition of this christmas four months late

-

There’s something about Jaebum’s voice that fills Jinyoung up to the core. It’s a softness - as he writhes beneath him, fingers curled into the cotton of their bedsheets - that builds out from his often serious, masculine voice. 

His back arches, hips pushing up into where Jinyoung’s pushing into him - long and slow; a relentless, steady rhythm. The room is warm and bathed in low light. Jaebum looks overwhelmed, sweat misted over the line of his chest, his upper lip, gathering clumps of hair at his temples. 

Jinyoung feels just as hot as he looks. His elbows give out and he barely catches himself before he’s crashing into Jaebum’s body. A moment - Jaebum pulses around him with a harsh, guttural groan. 

But he’s impatient too, he always is when they fuck like this. His nails dig into Jinyoung’s soft waist, and his eyes flutter open. He smiles, lopsided and dazed, when he catches Jinyoung’s eye. 

Jinyoung digs his knees into the mattress, adjusting himself, and they both pant at the electricity that runs between them. A long groan tumbles from Jaebum’s mouth - sinuous as it rolls over his body, curls into him, makes him spread his legs wider. Jinyoung jerks, hand stuffing down between them so he can squeeze at the base of his cock before he tips over the edge far too soon.  

It’s an awkward position and he laughs (mostly out of embarrassment, cheeks growing hot). But Jaebum’s hands soften, running over his back with care, now, instead of passion. 

His fingers are smooth - smoother than the roughness of his palms - small and insistent. They also feel differently, a little more deft in the years since Jaebum’s stopped wearing a multitude of heavy rings. 

He’d stopped shortly after the kid was born - after one too many accidental scratches. Minor things: a thin smattering of redness that dissipated within hours if not minutes. But Jaebum wasn’t willing to risk it. 

Jinyoung misses it now though, the cold press of metal into his skin - the way he could feel Jaebum’s grip on him even afterwards, like a phantom. 

How the heat between them would warm it up, slowly, slowly.

Now, they roll over the precipice just like that: tangled into each other, limbs lazy. And then Jinyoung collapses on the bed next to Jaebum, breathes deep and hard to catch his breath. 

Beneath him, the bedsheets are a little damp. They’ll have to change it before they can fall asleep. But not now. Now, he’s boneless. He turns his head, gaze running over Jaebum’s flushed chest and closed eyes. 

He almost thinks he’s fallen asleep, but there’s that familiar nose wrinkle, brows furrowing lightly. 

“Stop staring at me,” Jaebum murmurs. He’s breathing hard, eyes still closed.

Jinyoung rolls to his side. The single lamplight, on his side of the room, has a dull yellow light bulb - but it softens over Jaebum’s tanned skin, diffusing into soft warm-tones. 

“I’m not staring,” he says, just as soft, just as hushed. His fingers press along the cotton of the bedding, inching closer and closer to Jaebum’s smooth skin. “Just looking.” 

Jaebum laughs, but he’s flushing a little. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it out of his face. 

Jinyoung follows the movement. “You’re not wearing your rings,” he says. 

Jaebum peers at his hand, fingers splayed out, like he’s only just noticed. Like he never realised the way he’s always looping his fingers through keyrings and belt loops and toy straps. 

“No,” he replies. “I don’t really-,” his brows furrow, “-think I left them somewhere.”

There’s sweat misting on Jinyoung’s top lip. He can feel it tickling his emerging stubble. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, licks his lips, says, “You should wear them again.” 

Their gazes connect, and it takes a second for Jaebum to catch the heat in Jinyoung’s eyes. But then he does, dark eyes growing darker, mischievous, and Jinyoung’s belly tightens. 

-

Yugyeom is covered in paint. 

It’s smeared on his clothes, his arms, in his hair and all over his cheeks. But he pales in comparison to Bambam, kneeling next to him over the large sheet of paper, who’s drenched in every colour of the rainbow. There’s paint on his elbows, down his shirt, bunched up under his fingernails; a stripe of lavender is drying, flaking across his forehead.

They’re at a  _ Paint with Me _ class somewhere in Hongdae’s suburbs. Jinyoung and Suji are perched at one of the round tables, dotted in a circumference around the absolute mutiny of five to eight-year-olds unleashing a raw, natural instinct for abstract expressionism. 

The table is white and rickety; an inner circle grid with a thick border around it like it’s meant to be styled with a suburbanite dad standing next to a BBQ on GMarket’s online catalogue. 

It’s probably not meant to be used inside, is what Jinyoung is saying. 

“-you’re not even listening,” Suji gripes, annoyed. Though even the tone of her voice is slurring. They’ve been drinking cheap red wine from funky coloured glass tumblers for too long - taking advantage of not having to drive. 

They’re mostly isolated in their little bubble, rubbing shoulders with all the trendy parent types that sneer at Jinyoung when he turns up on the school run unshaven, puffy-faced and in sweatpants.

“I’m listening,” he replies absently. He catches the eye of one of the class assistants. 

She’s young, with small, delicate features on a round face, and hovering nervously near the cluster of children in Yugyeom and Bambam’s group. 

“Water soluble,” she assures him, palms up, like a mantra. “Very safe.” 

Jinyoung really hopes it’s true, because Bambam has paint practically covering every inch of exposed skin and Yugyeom is inching closer and closer to shoving bright yellow paint up his nostrils. 

There’s a strong scent of wax in the air - cloying and plastic. As it mixes in with the tart acidity of the wine and the fever pitch of twenty five children talking over each other, it makes Jinyoung’s stomach roll a little. 

“Actually,” he says, turning to Suji. “Repeat that again?”

She rolls her eyes, but the wine has softened her. The sole of her sneaker taps against Jinyoung’s leg in an unsteady rhythm. 

“How was it?” she asks him again. “With your parents?” 

So mundane, such a plain question. At the same time, it’s so fraught with tension. 

The silence hangs heavy between them. Then, “Good,” he says. “It went well.” 

Suji’s foot stops tapping.  

“Good?” she repeats. “Just good?”

He presses his lips together, reaching out to flick the rounded bottom of his glass. “There’s a lot that I have to process, but-. Yes, good.” 

She hums, not saying anything just yet. Just watches him carefully, head cocked; wisps of her hair spill over into the glass tumbler as she pushes it against her cheek. 

“What?” he asks, self-conscious. 

“Nothing,” she says first, but after a deep-breath she reconsiders. Her voice is careful and serious. “I’m proud of you.” 

Jinyoung scoffs (but his stomach feels heavy, full of fizz). 

“Jinyoung-ah,” Suji insists. “I am.” 

He bites down on the inside of his lip. Squeezes around the glass, wonders how much it’ll take before it breaks. 

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” 

“Yes,” she says, no hesitation. 

He throws her a look. “Are you saying that because I want you to say it, or because you mean it?” 

“Both.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“It is,” she says, adjusting in her seat. Yugyeom’s gurgling laugh ends in an over-excited screech towards the left. “It’s not a trick question. I don’t know that it’ll make everything-,  _ anything,  _ okay, but I trust you to know yourself.” 

Jinyoung takes a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. It’s been a few days since he’d seen them with Yugyeom. 

The kid hadn’t stopped talking about it; Jinyoung hasn’t stopped  _ thinking _ about it. 

He watches him now, slipping on a stray blob of paint as he tries to shuffle closer to Bambam. Would Jinyoung have ended up with the same kind of happiness if his parents were different, if he himself were different? 

Would he even want that, he’s asked himself. To exchange his baby, his partner, his  _ life _ for some other kind of happiness that would have been easier, lighter on his heart? 

There’s a lot of guilt there that he hasn’t unpacked. A complicated bit of gratitude too.

“Sometimes,” he says, once he’s stuttered his way through trying to explain it all, “sometimes it feels like they’re only doing this because of Yugyeom. Not me.” 

Silence rings out again, familiar by now. It tugs at Jinyoung until he glances up. Suji’s sitting back in her chair, hands tucked between her thighs, hair tied back in a loose, low ponytail. There’s a low flush on her cheeks and her eyes are bright, glossy - filled to the brim with worry. 

Her teeth catch on her lower lip, gaze wandering until she braces herself and looks at him finally. Her voice is tender when she says: “I really hope that’s not the case, Jinyoung.” 

He nods, because there’s not much else he can do. But it’s uneasy, rough. Jinyoung can’t quite stomach the look in her eyes. 

He’d wanted comfort - to be told that he was being an idiot and of  _ course _ not, Jinyoung, of course not. Instead, it was his own worry reflected back. 

-

Later, as the kids are dozing in the back of Jaebum’s car in mismatched bumper seats and Suji is sitting beside them, she catches Jinyoung’s eye in the rear-view mirror. 

She wrinkles her nose at him, playful, before she notices his sombreness. Her face falls a little. Not into seriousness, but something too close not to be familiar.  

Her mouth parts. Closes. Opens again, pensive. 

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” she says to him. “Much least your happiness.” 

Jaebum glances between them as he changes lanes; sudden worry and curiosity and a whole host of other things Jinyoung’s too tired to parse out. 

Suji leans her head against the window. Her right hand is still tucked into Bambam’s lap, holding tight to his small fingers. She closes her eyes, still a little wine-drunk, but to Jinyoung, she says, “Your strength came from you, it always has. You can count on it.” 

-

Jinyoung and Jaebum’s apartment is about as spacious as a three-bedroomed mid-level apartment in Seoul can be. 

They’re on the fourth floor, even though Jinyoung would love the glamour of a top-floor apartment. In theory. The kid is a little afraid of heights and Jinyoung is a lot afraid of the kid next to heights. 

So they settled for this apartment with its thick glass windows, open-view kitchen, and tiny white-tiled bathroom. 

There’s just enough space for Jinyoung to squeeze in between the sink and where Jaebum’s elbow deep in swishy, swirly bath water. 

Yugyeom and Bambam are clinging to the last rays of wakefulness. While Jinyoung and Jaebum are kneeling by the bathtub giving them their bath before they put them down for the night. 

The water is warm and shallow; washed-out tones of paint float together, merge into each other. 

Jaebum is taking care of Yugyeom. The kid is sleepy but also grumpy now too. He’s pouting, limp-limbed as his dad rubs a soapy loofah over his shoulders.

Bambam still has some energy left: scooping up water to watch it stream between his fingers, giggling when Jinyoung slicks his wet hair back. He likes the tinkling echo that the water makes as he plays. 

So he makes a sound of disappointment, a little crow of noise, when Jinyoung takes out the plug to drain the dirty tub.

“It’s alright,” Jinyoung assures him quietly. “I’m just changing the water.”

It mollifies him, at least. The kid twists around to cup his hand under the warm stream as soon as Jinyoung has it flowing out. He hums to himself, content, even as Yugyeom starts fussing on the other side.

Jaebum lifts him out of the tub, hugging him close to the towel on his chest, to rock him. Yugyeom makes discontent noises, rubbing his face into his dad’s neck. 

He’s almost too big to carry now, and it settles something warm and sad in Jinyoung’s stomach. 

His hair is still wet, smearing a line of paint on Jaebum’s jaw. 

“I know you’re tired,” Jaebum soothes, patting his back. Though there’s an undercurrent of frustration in his voice that he’s trying to smooth over. “But just a little longer, okay?” 

Bambam glances over his shoulder, watching with curious eyes. “You don’t hafta cry, Yugyeom.” 

_ “Not _ crying,” Yugyeom snaps immediately, voice muffled in Jaebum’s shoulder. He gets so cranky when he’s tired. He’s pouting, rubbing at his eye. Mumbles, “I’m not a baby.” 

Bambam doesn’t even flinch; dragging his fingers through the water as Jaebum lowers Yugyeom back in. “I don’t cry,” he muses to himself. He smiles at Jinyoung. “I’m not even tired. I’m gonna stay up until forever.” 

Jinyoung laughs, tugging on his earlobe to wash off a dash of green. 

He almost believes it, just a little while after, when Yugyeom’s passed out on his side of the bed and Bambam’s still awake. But barely. He’s quiet and warm, all tucked in with Poco the Bear - rubbing the pads of his fingers against the curl of brown fur. 

Jinyoung’s leaning against the threshold of the room, watching as Jaebum reads him a story. When Jaebum’s finished, closing the thick cardboard pages, he stands with a groan, leans over to the kids.

“It’s time for bed now?” Bambam asks. He sounds a little disappointed but mostly agreeable - he’s tired too. 

Jaebum hums deep in his throat, fingers steady as they run through Bam’s hair, coaxing him sweetly to close his eyes. 

Jinyoung takes it all in heavily. His tongue, in his dry mouth, feels heavy, but so does his stomach, his chest, his heart. Jaebum dotes on their son constantly. It’s something wholly familiar to Jinyoung - thrums low and lovely through every aspect of his life.

But he’s different with Bambam, doting in a whole new way. It’s different with two of them.

Jinyoung follows behind Jaebum as they slowly migrate to their sitting room for the night. He can’t help the way he sways forward, tangles his fingers in Jaebum’s, pulls him back for a warm kiss until they’re pressed tight against the wall. 

“What was that for?” Jaebum asks after, mouths barely parted. A dark dash of purple bleeds into the darkening brush of stubble on his jaw.

Jinyoung’s lips are tingling. He darts a look up to Jaebum’s eyes and then back to his mouth, says breathlessly, “Have you thought about another baby?” 

It’s not until Jaebum’s brow crinkles, low-riding lust melting into confusion, that Jinyoung realises what he’s said.

“What?” Jaebum pulls away to stand straighter. Jinyoung misses his warmth immediately. The look in his eyes stutters Jinyoung’s heart. 

He’s not angry, that’s not what it is. It’s confusion, darkening his eyes. Jinyoung would be lying if that didn’t sting a little. 

“Nothing,” he says at last, pushing away from the wall too. “I just got caught up-. I didn’t mean anything.” 

He starts to walk to the living room but Jaebum catches his wrist, pleads, “Jinyoung-ah, let’s talk about this?”

And Jinyoung … he doesn’t want to. He’d rather forget about it altogether, push it away until he’s had time to think about it properly. His mouth parts to say just that, but then he remembers their promises way back when. Before they were even together again. 

_ An eye for an eye. You promise to listen,  _ really _ listen. _

“Okay,” he concedes finally. And he wants it to feel like progress, not defeat. 

They sit on the couch together. Jinyoung’s palm itches to reach for the remote, to turn on the TV for some background noise. 

Jaebum clears his throat, curls his fingers through the flimsy cotton of his trousers. 

“Is this because of your parents?” he blurts after a short, strained silence.

“No,” Jinyoung replies automatically, so used to deflecting. He sighs, admitting, “Yes. A little.” 

“How little is a little?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Jinyoung-”

“It’s not countable,” Jinyoung insists. His voice is firm, unrelenting. But then his brows pinch, the air in his chest swells. “I just want to have a family with you.” 

Jaebum watches him carefully.

“We  _ have _ that,” he says. His brow has smoothed over. He reaches out to hold Jinyoung’s hand. “We don’t have to reach a certain number to be a family.” 

“That’s not-,” Jinyoung cuts himself off, frustration forms under his tongue. “That’s not what I mean.” 

Jaebum squeezes his hand. “Then I don’t understand.” 

Jinyoung takes a deep breath, takes a few more to collect his thoughts. 

“I want to be a good parent for Yugyeom,” he starts. “But more than that. I want him to grow up well, happy. Surrounded by-, by-.” 

By people he can count on, no matter what, he doesn’t say. 

“Siblings,” Jaebum supplies.

“Yes,” Jinyoung replies plainly. Their eyes meet.

Jinyoung’s told him before. How his sisters, both older than him by a good half a decade and more, stood waiting on a crowded Seoul station while a light, feminine tone - perfectly pleasant, perfectly bland - reverberated in the background.

It was awkward. They couldn’t quite meet each other’s eyes, and the bare branches of their speech were stiff and unrelenting. 

Boyoung had been too skinny, Jinyoung told Jaebum, dressed in a thin shirt ill-fitted for the cool chill in the air. Her knuckles were stark against the steering wheel of her tiny, cramped car. He always imagines they were equally as stark against the tightly-gripped pen she used to sign off on his dorm room papers, his medical forms, his rental guarantor forms - anything really, that he could have asked. 

Though he would have preferred her voice. Sooyoung’s laughter. Even now. But distance, in land and in heart, stops them at bare branches of formalities a few times a year if they’re lucky. 

_ This is my new address. I found a job. You don’t need to send anything anymore. I had a baby. I moved places. We’re back together. Yugyeom is growing up well. It’s okay, I’m okay.  _

Jaebum’s fingers tightens around his. 

“What brought this on?” 

Jinyoung pulls his hand away, pushes back his hair. 

“You’re really good with Bambam,” he tells him. He can’t figure out why there’s such deep churning in his chest, why he’s so emotional over this. It’s not like him at all. “With Yugyeom too - both of them. I liked seeing you like that.” 

Jaebum leans back against the couch, gaze distant. From the kitchen, the fridge whirrs its motor. There’s a barely perceptible static buzz coming from the TV on standby. Jinyoung lets him be. 

After a moment Jaebum clears his throat, eyes serious. “What if,” he says, hesitating. “What if I don’t want another one?”

Jinyoung’s swivels his gaze, staring at nothing in the middle distance beyond Jaebum. He traps his tongue between his teeth, bites down on it as his neck pricks with heat. He’d expected it somewhat, given the tone of the conversation, and yet. And yet. 

He takes a deep breath, looks at his partner. His voice is weaker than he’d like it to be, but still he says, “I’d understand.” 

It takes a second but Jaebum loosens his hold to grab his wrist instead, pulling Jinyoung closer. Like this, their heat intermingles. Jaebum smells like warm soap, the last notes of earthy cardamom, and home. 

He hugs him tight. 

“We can talk about,” Jaebum rumbles above him. “We have a long time still.” A quiet sort of relief bursts in Jinyoung’s chest, but the tension still lingers. Jaebum shifts uncomfortably, tries to lighten the mood. “Aren’t you worried I’ll drop a baby?” 

Jinyoung chokes out a laugh (it sounds wet and mushy even to him) but he rolls his eyes, sits up and says wryly, “I trust you.”

Jaebum sobers. Watches him. “Do you?” 

“Do I what?” Jinyoung asks with a sniffle, palms scrubbing over his face. He pushes his hair back, ignoring the slight dampness on his hands after they go over his eyes. 

“Do you trust me?” 

Jinyoung lips part, and he looks between Jaebum’s deep serious eyes, the heavy set of his mouth. It feels like his heartbeat slows, pausing to take in such a big, daunting question. 

A beat too long passes. Jinyoung still hasn’t spoken. Almost instinctively, he touches a tongue to his own lip, takes a breath. 

“Yes.”

Jaebum’s expression is shuttered. “You hesitated.”

“No, I  _ thought _ about it,” Jinyoung corrects. “I’ve  _ been _ thinking about it, Jaebum. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” 

Jinyoung’s not nineteen anymore. He has a child, a home, a whole new set of responsibilities. 

He’s not the same foolish Jinyoung that would carelessly jump headfirst into things without thinking it through; properly, thoroughly. 

Into a relationship with a boy he found infuriating. Into parenthood. Into arguments. 

He wants to be thoughtful now. “Forgiving you and forgetting what happened aren’t the same thing. But I do. I trust you, Jaebum.”

Jaebum stares until he finds what he needs in Jinyoung’s expression. Then he exhales - long and deep. He collapses the rest of the way into Jinyoung embrace; brands a small, private, smile into the warm skin of Jinyoung’s neck. Like a secret.

Jinyoung feels him speak better than he hears him: soft lips ghosting promises and raising goosebumps. “I won’t let you down, sweetheart,” Jaebum says. “Not this time.” 

-

Jinyoung is nearly asleep. The TV is on low, a female protagonist’s voice turns shrill against the low staccato tones of the villain. 

But Jinyoung’s not watching. He’s counting the rhythm of Jaebum’s heartbeat, ear to his chest. It’s been an incredibly long day. 

Outside, the wind has picked up. It whips and groans against the sharp corners of Seoul’s high-rises. 

It batters against the windows before it falls away. Jinyoung hopes it doesn’t wake up the kids, he’ll have to check in on them before he goes to bed. 

He’s slowly trying to remember what he has to do tomorrow when Jaebum speaks.

“You should invite them to our Christmas party,” he says. He’s pretending to watch the TV screen, like this is an offhand comment and not something he’s been carefully building up the courage to say. “Your sisters. Your parents. They should come.” 

Jinyoung twists his head to look at him better. Jaebum’s eyes stay resolutely in front of him, but his grip on Jinyoung’s shoulder is vice-tight. 

The party is only a few days away. Less of a party and more like a mish-mash potluck of food and friends at the beginning-end of a long year. 

It’s not tradition (not yet) though Jinyoung wants it to be. With his family ... it might be good for him, good for his soul. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, laying back down properly. 

Jaebum doesn’t reply, burying his nose in the crown of Jinyoung’s hair. But he squeezes tight, already knowing what his answer will be. 

-

Jinyoung is ill-prepared. 

“Remind me to never do this again,” he says, exasperated, to Hyunwoo. His eyes are closed, forehead again the cool surface of the bathroom cabinet. “There are too many people in my house.”

It’s been barely forty minutes since the Christmas get-together has started and Jinyoung is  _ not _ prepared. As evidenced by his minor breakdown in his tiny bathroom. 

“It’s not that bad,” Hyunwoo says, Oreo biscuit crumbs in the corners of his mouth. He pops another one in, crunching thoughtfully as he leans back against the door.

Jinyoung groans, thudding his head against the smooth laminate. “Why did I think this was a good idea?” 

They’ve run out of cranberry juice for the spritzers, so he’d sent Suji to the nearest Emart. Jinyoung hasn’t even had time to clean the apartment properly, and he feels like this day has lasted for years already. He wants a nap, and Jaebum. 

He’s out gallivanting through the streets of Seoul (or, “picking up his parents from the airport” as he’d called it) with Jackson and Mark. It’s been a long day, and Jinyoung’s a little testy. 

This morning began before the sun emerged. The apartment was cold and quiet. Nora had blinked one lazy eye open when Jinyoung, Jaebum and Yugyeom filed into the living room. Then she swished her tail and curled back into herself. 

It was atmospheric though: the twinkling lights of the tree refracting against the dark windows, the rough tickle of tinsel on Jinyoung’s skin, Jaebum’s cracked sleep-rough voice, and Yugyeom, a warm, even weight on his lap. 

The kid took each present carefully, short fingernails scratching at the tape before curling his fingers under the flaps and ripping flimsy paper apart. 

Jinyoung sneaked a hand over his stomach, feeling each of Gyeom’s breaths rattle through him. He was getting sniffly again, and Jinyoung couldn’t help but worry. 

The pre-work, pre-school twilight subdued his excitement a little, but he still radiated happiness. 

He clutched his new fire engine to his chest, squirmed over his new keyboard set, rubbed his palm over his new pyjamas, ate a handful of his favourite sweets right then and there. 

Then he crawled out of Jinyoung’s lap and careened into  Jaebum’s chest. Mumbled a clumsy, ‘thank you, Daddy,’ while Jaebum hugged him tight, tight, tight.

The lazy start to the day, for better or for worse, levelled out the kid’s raucous excitement. He’s still going, even as it inches closer and closer to seven in the evening. 

Jinyoung suspects that’s due to the sugar-laden hot chocolate he guzzled down when he thought Appa wasn’t looking. 

He’s playing with Bambam in the living room, probably smearing who-knows-what into the pristine hanbok Jaebum wrestled him into an hour earlier. 

“We should head back,” Hyunwoo advises. He’s still wearing his dress pants and slacks from work, blazer and tie discarded in the pile of outerwear in the master bedroom. The multi-coloured tinsel necklace around his neck offsets it a little. 

“This was a mistake,” Jinyoung groans again, but he lets Hyunwoo drag him back into the sitting room.

Most of their friends are there - making up a mish mash of colours in different levels of casualness. 

Minhyuk, naturally, is proudly brandishing a badly-knitted sweater with Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer’s face distorted over his chest; a large red pom pom has been superglued for the nose. He’s gesticulating wildly at one of Jaebum’s friends, occasionally bumping into Momo behind him. 

She’s in leopard print sweatpants and long-sleeved crop top, hair pulled into two braids while her fringe frames her face. She’s giggling by the counter, slicing up oranges for the fruit punch with Ahyeon. 

Jaebum’s friends are hanging out in a tight cluster near the tree. Hyolyn is deep in conversation with Sungjin. Brian tips his beer towards Jinyoung with a smile, then leans down to pat Yugyeom’s head. The kids weave plastic vehicles in and around his legs. 

“See,” Hyunwoo says, draping a heavy arm over Jinyoung’s shoulder. “Everyone’s having a good time.” 

Jinyoung rubs his chest absently, it’s good. This is good. 

The thrum of conversation crests in waves. It wraps around him, permeates into the walls. The apartment is a little too small for everyone, especially as there are still people yet to come, but his friends don’t mind. 

Elbows in sides are greeted by playfully narrowed eyes. ‘Excuse me’ and ‘Can I just…?’ are the currency between giggles and shared smiles. 

Soon enough, Jinyoung gets caught up in food preparation. There’s a mix of Western-style traditional Christmas food (the largest turkey possibly ever caught, an assortment of incorrectly braised root vegetables, and a jar of imported cranberry sauce that Sunmi had brandished at him earlier) and traditional Lunar festival foods. 

It’s an operation to turn the turkey over. A Girl’s Generation Christmas song blares aggressively in the background. Jinyoung is holding the tray steady, even though the heat is burning through his thick gloves, while Hyolyn and Ahyeon use tongs and a pair of cooking chopsticks to ineffectively try to turn it over. The steam is fogging up Momo’s glasses, Minhyuk darts in with two forks to help, though it causes more confusion. 

They talk over each other - _ like this; no, no like this; are you crazy, do it like this _ \- like a fever dream. 

Jinyoung eventually leaves them to it, heading back over to the living room. The front door opens suddenly, almost knocking him out. 

It brings in a breeze of cool air from the dark hallway and Suji’s dark eyes widening as she peers around the door. 

“Sorry,” she says. She’s clutching two bottles of sparkling white wine to her chest, a plastic Homeplus bag dangling from her wrist. Her hair is in curls today; silver stars and glitter strands threaded throughout. All dolled up like one of those idols on TV. 

“I told you to go to EMart,” he frowns, opening the door wider. His heart skips, eyes landing on his mother standing between Suji and Taejoon. 

“Oh,” Jinyoung says numbly, eyes landing on one person after another. There’s his mother, his father, but also Sooyoung biting nervously at her top lip with a death grip on who Jinyoung assumes is her boyfriend. Boyoung is towards the back, standing beside her husband. 

Jinyoung only recognises him - short and serious - from the occasional photograph uploaded online. Between them is a girl, a few years older than Yugyeom, wearing a peony-printed dress with a silk bow and a fluffy blue winter coat. She has the same seriousness as her father, but her features are all Boyoung. 

“Look who I found downstairs,” Suji says with a sweet smile. Then, less sweetly, as the bottles slip in her grip: “Hey! Are you going to help me or not?”

Jinyoung jumps to take the wine from her, ushering everyone in. 

“Come in,” he says, shuffling backwards, out of the way. A sort of hush half-falls over his friends - a blip in momentum, as they see who is coming in, before it picks up again. They know, of course, even if they don’t say anything. 

Suji, expert in dodging awkward situations, dips around Jinyoung to escape to the kitchen. Taejoon lifts his eyebrows in greeting but shuffles after her, leaving Jinyoung with two bottles of wine clutched to his chest and nothing to say. 

He catches Hyunwoo’s eye from across the room, then trails his gaze back to his mother. It feels too warm in here. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. He’d invited them after all, he just didn’t think that - that they would actually  _ be _ here. 

It feels surreal, almost like he’s dangling between two lives. Unreal, as if it’s not his own heart beating so strongly against his ribs. 

Hyunwoo cuts across him. 

“I’ll take that,” he says, grabbing one of the wine bottles. Then, very politely, he turns to smile at Jinyoung’s family, eyes curving into half-moons. “How was your journey? Would you like me to take your coats?” 

He offers his hands to Jinyoung’s mother. She’s dressed smartly - a little too seriously for the festivities - and wears her patented uncomfortable, rigid smile. But it’s Jinyoung’s father who takes off his heavy winter coat first, glancing around. 

His gaze, when it periodically lands on Hyunwoo, is simultaneously curious and curt. 

Jinyoung’s mother folds her jacket over her arm, touches the plastic beret in her hair and clears her throat. “Is this…?” 

She leaves the question hanging. Jinyoung instinctively leans forward to hear what she has to say. It takes him a second, though, to parse it out. He stares at her, then hesitantly looks at Hyunwoo beside him. 

It hits them at the same time. 

“Oh,” Jinyoung exclaims. 

_ “No,” _ Hyunwoo emphasises. “I’m hyung. Just hyung.” 

“Coats,” Jinyoung says quickly, nudging Hyunwoo forward. The night’s barely started, and he already needs several drinks. “Hyung, would you please?”

Thankfully, though, Jinyoung gets pulled away soon enough. There’s been an emergency with the octopus on the griddle. 

It probably doesn’t make him a terribly good host, but he’s thankful that the baton of entertaining his wayward family members has been taken by his friends. 

They look awkward, of course, sitting stiffly on the couch clutching at their drinks. But Jinyoung doesn’t know what to do about it. 

“How are you doing?” Momo asks, sidling up to him. “Okay?” 

Her hands are covered in grapefruit pulp and her round glasses are sliding down her nose. She tips her head backwards and to the side to nudge them back in place. 

“Is it cowardly to say ‘no’?” he asks, only half joking. 

Suji is loudly recounting something to Taejoon by the sink. The rush of water, as they wash the salad, is opened too wide - like a gush, it careens into the metal with a dizzying clamour. 

“Oppa,” Momo sighs. Jinyoung can barely hear her. There’s a faint flush to her cheeks, and her glasses have made two rosy dents on either side of her nose bridge. “Do you really mean that?” 

He does. If only a little. But he doesn’t want to worry her. 

“I’m just joking,” he says, knocking his shoulder into hers. “You don’t have to worry.” 

She presses her dry lips together. “I always worry about you.” 

“That’s  _ my  _ job,” he replies. He reaches to squeeze her wrist. “I’m supposed to worry about you, look after you.” 

She rolls her eyes. But a smile pulls at her lips, undeniably pleased. “You can barely look after yourself,” she tells him. “That’s why you need oppa.” 

“Who’s this oppa I’m hearing about,” Jaebum says from behind them. Jinyoung jumps. He hadn’t heard him come in. “Should I be worried?” 

He winds his arm around Jinyoung’s waist, habit by now. Though Jinyoung stiffens, eyes darting instinctively over to his family. His stomach tightens as he catches Boyoung’s husband’s eye. 

It’s surprised, guarded. But then Brian says something over on his left and he turns, laughing bashfully. Jinyoung doesn’t know what to make of it.

He wraps tentative fingers over Jaebum’s arm, poised to push it away, when he catches his father looking at them. 

His gaze dips to where Jinyoung and Jaebum are connected and then back up. Jinyoung’s barely breathing. Momo and Jaebum are speaking, not paying any mind.

There’s a long unspoken conversation communicated between Jinyoung and his father. Though Jinyoung doesn’t quite know how to take it - or what it means. 

His father smiles at him. Tension draws in the corners of his mouth, his brown eyes are clear and complicated. But Jinyoung doesn’t have any time to try and figure it out. 

His father stands, taking Jaebum’s father’s hand in a firm grip. Jackson laughs loudly at something Mark’s showing him on his phone. They pause in the middle of the sitting room, in front of the island, obscuring Jinyoung’s view. 

The arm around his waist tightens. Momo has wandered off and Jaebum eyes Jinyoung with nothing but softness. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

Jinyoung takes a deep breath, smiles. “Better now.” 

-

The logistics of handing out food to over fifteen people crammed into one room of a fourth-floor apartment is, admittedly, not something Jinyoung truly thought through.

“Wing it,” Minhyuk shrugs, as if that’s not his answer to everything. 

What ends up happening is that everyone clusters into different groups, knees knocking together to balance precarious bowls and plates. 

Yugyeom already rice stuck on his cheeks, sitting in a semi-circle on the floor with Bambam and his cousin Sooyeon. He reaches into his small plastic bowl for a spoonful of soup and drops a thick strand of noodle down the front of his silk jacket. 

He tries to get it off, instead ends up smearing the mess wider. He peers around, trying to see if anyone’s caught him, and startles when he sees Jinyoung’s eyes on him. 

The kid looks left and right, up and down, but Jinyoung’s frustration is still palpable. He comes, though, when Jinyoung beckons him over. 

They head into the kitchen and Jinyoung kneels down to wipe off the remainder of the mess. 

“Didn’t I tell you to be careful?” he chides. But for once there’s no heat in his voice. He’s mostly just surprised it took the kid this long to soil himself.

“I  _ was  _ careful, Appa,” Yugyeom whines, he scratches at the back of his hair. “It was slippery, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Jinyoung replies, he starts undoing the fastening of the jacket. It’s a shame, Yugyeom looks so cute all dressed up. “Will you be cold without your jacket? You can go get something from your room.” 

He still has his undershirt on: white with billowing sleeves that Jinyoung promptly rolls up. He has a feeling it won’t make it through tonight’s chocolate offerings, but at least it’s easier to replace than the silk. 

“I won’t be cold,” the kid says. He bounces on his toes, eager to go back. “Appa, I can go now?” 

Jinyoung lets him, standing up slowly. The stain isn’t too bad on close inspection. It hasn’t chaffed, so he might even get away with not taking it to the dry-cleaners. 

He’s not quite expecting to see Boyoung standing there when he glances up. 

His eyes slide over her shoulder to where everyone is collected. There’s a fairytale playing on TV, Jaebum is tentatively speaking to Jinyoung’s dad. Everything feels otherworldly. 

“Is something wrong?” He can’t help but ask. He clutches Yugyeom’s jacket close, blue silk smooth between his fingers.

Boyoung shakes her head. “I just wanted to-,” she stops, gaze running over his face. She drinks him in. Blinks, pulling back the intensity, some. Jinyoung feels a little trapped. “It’s been a long time.” 

It has. But she still looks the same, her hair is shorter now though, and there are lines creeping up around her eyes. 

“Yes,” Jinyoung says. Then he presses his lips together, unsure of how to proceed. “I,” he tries. “I wasn't really expecting this. All of you.” 

She bites down on her lip, fingers twitching by her side before she tucks them in behind her. 

“Halmeoni said to tell you she was sorry she and Harabeoji couldn’t come,” she says. “We tried to convince them, but it was last-minute and you know how they are about leaving the village.”

Jinyoung’s lips part, nodding absently. He doesn’t really. Never really had the occasion to know. 

“I hope it’s okay we came,” Boyoung continues. “All of us. We didn’t ask before, but we should have and we just-” 

“It’s okay,” Jinyoung cuts in. “I’m glad you came.” 

They lapse into awkward silence again. 

It’s strange because they weren’t ever really close. Not really. Perhaps it was too many years between them. Or even because Boyoung had always been itching to be _away_ for as long as he can remember \- from home, from expectation. Everything, like a caged bird. 

He was the opposite, of course. Always wanting to be in the fold. 

Sooyoung swung like a pendulum between the two dispositions, inevitably settling on whatever landed her closest to their parents with minimum disruption. 

“How have you been?” Boyoung asks him. 

Jinyoung frowns, “Have you not been getting my messages?” 

Boyoung smiles ruefully, shrugs a little. “I was hoping for a little more than a three-word sentence, Jinyoung-ah.” 

The endearment causes surprise to fritter through his bones. “I’m doing okay,” he says at last. “Noona.” His palms are sweating. “Did you have a good trip? Busan’s a little far.” 

“Yes,” she replies. “We’re staying in a hotel not far from here. Taking the chance to take a look around town for a few days. It’s Sooyeon’s first time.” 

“You should take her to the aquarium,” he offers, hand gesturing uselessly. “In Samseong. Yugyeom loves it. I’m sure she would too.” 

“Oh,” she rocks back on her feet. “I’ll- yes, I’ll put it in my … in my diary.” 

They glance at each other, then away again. The awkwardness between them seems impenetrable. It’s worse because there’s no silence. 

Jinyoung can hear Suji giggling from here, Minhyuk talking in low tones with Hyunwoo. It’s just here, between them. The lack of conversation permeates, sinks into the air like fog. 

“Let’s go for coffee,” he blurts out, before his mind can catch up with his brain. His heart thuds. The sound of blood rushes his ears. 

Boyoung’s eyes widen, though she masks it quickly. “Tomorrow?” 

“Whenever you’d like. Sooyoung too.” 

“Tomorrow, then?” she ventures, hope bubbling under her breath. “There’s a coffee shop in Insadong, on a terrace next to a gallery-”

“I know that one,” Jinyoung says quickly, he sways closer to her. Flashes her a hesitant smile. “Let’s do that. Let’s go to that one. Catch up.

She nods eagerly, and a strand of her fringe falls from behind her ear over her eyes - catching on her lash. Boyoung pushes it back and Jinyoung can’t help but think of how pretty she looks. A smile breaks through her expression, like she’s so happy she can’t contain it. 

She nods again, says, “We’ll finalise everything later on, then?” Her voice ticks up. She waits until he nods in confirmation before he spins on her heel and heads back into the sitting room, sitting close to Sooyoung.

Jinyoung’s heart is pounding, his fingers are creasing the silk of his son’s jacket. He exhales on a deep breath and turns towards the sitting room. 

His friends, family, are scattered all over his living room - eyes attentive on the cartoon character radiating sparks of magic on the TV screen. 

But there are two sets of eyes on him. Jaebum, of course, looking warm and more than a little beer-sated; but also Jinyoung’s mother, untouched wine-glass in her hand. 

She’s between Jaebum’s mother and Jinyoung’s father - a moored island. Jinyoung’s caught her, throughout the evening, looking around. Eyes glancing between Jaebum and Yugyeom like she’d forgotten the steps it took to get there. 

When their gazes connect, she and Jinyoung’s, her façade wilts. 

It happens slowly then all at once - from around the edges like the crackling of ice around a frozen lake. It opens up to a subdued spring, new and wet and tentative. 

Her smile is barely there, not quite as loud as the open love in Jaebum’s eyes, but there all the same. 

-

Hours later, when everyone’s left and tinsel debris has been plastered all over Jinyoung’s living room, he sighs. 

He and Jaebum stand on opposite sides of the sitting room, taking it all in. 

Yugyeom is passed out on the couch - a combination of crankiness and a sugar crash - after a mini-tantrum, when Bambam left, and a tearfully-consumed bowl of chocolate ice-cream shortly thereafter. 

Jinyoung collapses next to the kid. A deep breath in through his nose and then he’s pushing Yugyeom’s hair back, leaning in to leave a kiss on his soft cheek. He’s pretty cute when he’s not being his parent’s worst nightmare. 

Yugyeom stirs awake, scrubbing a hand over his face. He sits up before Jinyoung can coax him back to sleep. There are red sleep lines over his cheek and he shuffles over, sinking into Jinyoung’s embrace. 

Jinyoung presses a kiss on his warm forehead, says quietly, “Let’s go to bed, baby. You’ve had a long day.” 

He helps the kid slide off of the couch, and over to where Jaebum’s stacking bowls by the sink for a quick goodnight. 

After, he lets Jinyoung put him on his shoulder. He’s a heavy weight, steady breaths against Jinyoung’s neck; asleep before they even make it out into the hallway. 

Jinyoung gets him in his pyjamas, pulls the covers over him and turns on his bedside lamp before he heads back out. 

His bedroom is cooler than the rest of the house. The lump of coats and scarves have already been obliterated between goodbye hugs and hasty waves. 

He sits on their bed, ruffles through the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet until he finds what he’s looking for. It’s full of loose, errant papers already. Letters, bills, and so much more that he doesn’t need. 

It closes with a quiet sound. The apartment is so quiet, in the dead of night like this. 

Jinyoung pads back into the kitchen just as Jaebum’s finishing up. They share a tired smile between them, when Jinyoung slides on to one of the island chairs. 

There’s too much to do for tonight. But they’ll have time tomorrow - as the end of year holidays kick in. 

Jaebum’s making them tea, always so meticulous in the way he prepares it. His dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows, strong forearms moving the porcelain with delicacy. 

The tea - mint, fresh - is pale in colour, mostly translucent. Jaebum looks so handsome like this. Serious. Dedicated.

He glances up, does a double-take when he catches Jinyoung’s gaze. A bashful smile blooms on his face. 

“What?” 

“I’m just looking,” Jinyoung teases. But he pinches the front of Jaebum’s shirt, drags him down for a kiss. 

It’s an awkward angle, but Jaebum’s lips are soft, explorative. He cups Jinyoung’s face and kisses him harder, deeper. His tongue brushes over Jinyoung’s. It’s tender, but also challenging. Jinyoung kisses him back just as hard, just as deeply. 

When they part, it’s with a whispered breath. They stare at each other’s Jinyoung’s mouth feels overlarge on his face and he can’t help but press his fingers to it, pressing down on the way it pulses. 

Jaebum ruffles Jinyoung’s hair, before leaning back, taking a long sip of his tea. 

He ends up sitting beside Jinyoung, warm thigh pressed up against his. “You had a good day?” 

Jinyoung takes a deep breath, thinking about it. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I did.” 

Absently, Jaebum nods, lashes thick and dark. “I did too.” 

Jinyoung’s gaze wanders to Jaebum's hand, wrapped tight against his mug. “You’re not wearing your rings.” 

His fingers twitch, he glances down too, spreading out his hand on the countertop. “No,” he says. “I’ll have to find them. Or get some new ones, I guess.” 

Carefully, Jinyoung reaches into his pocket, tightens his hand around the little box in his pocket.

He doesn’t see Jaebum’s expression, but he hears his tight intake of breath when Jinyoung places it on the counter with a barely perceptible  _ tap, tap _ . 

“Jinyoung-,” Jaebum breathes. 

“It’s not-, not yet,” he makes sure to look Jaebum in the eye for this. He’s relieved he doesn’t see any diminished light in the other man’s eyes. “But it’s a promise.” 

He’d bought the ring on a whim, walking around on an extended lunch break. It was displayed in a tiny jewellers’ window near Olympic-ro. The kind of thing Jaebum would like. 

Titanium. Brushed gunmetal in colour, with intricate, geometric engravings. It’s sturdy, reliable - all the things Jinyoung hopes to be. 

He’s not going to say something lame like, “will you marry me?” 

Even though … even though. It’s not the right time. Instead he settles for: “I want to do this the right way. Together.” 

Jaebum nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” 

He pulls him up, pulls him into a crushing hug. Jinyoung hugs back, just as tight. And it feels good this way. It feels right. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta~da! 
> 
> catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/exosbebe), i'm probably saying some dumb things about how much i love jinyoung

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't feel quite right ending anteroom without addressing jinyoung's relationship with his parents. 
> 
> so here is this fic. christmas themed almost a week after christmas lolol ... let's all collectively suspend our disbelief and extend the holiday season a little longer 
> 
> happy new year! ♡
> 
> p.s. check out my other jjp fics  
> (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ [precipitation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236617) \+ [fidelis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664197/chapters/39074956)


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